


Pain Threshold

by Ravenstone



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain Threshold

Pain Threshold

A Professionals Fan Fiction Collaboration by Rave and ILWB

Many thanks to Bodie4me for excellent proof reading skills

This story contains scenes of violence - You have been warned...

 

_All your life you've never seen_  
A woman--taken by the wind  
Would you stay if she promised you heaven  
Will you ever win... 

 

**Tuesday - June 14th**

In the semi darkness, Rhiannon carefully picked her way through the crowd that was heaving its way towards the stage. To say the Palais was crowded tonight would be an understatement. She smiled to herself, noting that the support band seemed to be doing okay. Well, nobody was gobbing on them - not yet at least. The seething mass of people smelled of beer, sweat and cannabis. Squeezing between two huge blokes and the pillar near the bar, she finally made it to open space. Rounding the bar she slipped through to the back stage area.

“Hi, babe, you’re pushing it a bit for time.” The drummer, Steve, looked up at her with a genuinely warm smile, and a heavy Welsh valleys accent.

“Bloody traffic on the Hammersmith flyover,” she explained with a shrug. “It’s looking good out front.”

“Yeah, ‘The Incredible Shrinking Dickies’ seem to have quite a following,” said Steve, flicking his long, blond, feather-cut hair back from his face.

She looked around. “Where’s Gary?” she asked.

Steve pulled a face, nodded towards the gents’ toilets, and mimed the action of someone squeezing a hypo into their arm.

"Right." She looked down at the floor for a second. "I’ll get changed then."

"Something slinky and sexy?"

She turned to meet the teasing gaze. "But of course. Why should tonight be any different?" She flashed him a sultry look, all playful seductress.

He laughed. "Careful, tiger. I'm spoken for."

She changed the grip on her bag, throwing it over her shoulder, and gave him a rueful look. "Aw, Steve. And I thought I could convert you?"

She dodged the drum stick flung at her without malice, and sashayed off in the direction of the Ladies', swinging her hips deliberately.

Once inside, she found a stall and set about making it bearable. Wet wipes dealt with the seat and any available surfaces, before she washed her hands and set about her preparations. Being in a rock band didn't mean she had to abstain from all the niceties in life, like basic hygiene, she vowed. And some of these toilets left a lot to be desired. Working quickly, she stripped off her jeans and t-shirt, pulling on the tight black lycra trousers and wriggling into the bustier. With movements far from sensuous, she bent down to adjust herself, pulling her breasts into the cups of the bustier for better effect and greater comfort. She applied her make up quickly and expertly, black eyeliner gliding across her lids, her lips scarlet and inviting, with a natural cupid's bow that would make an artist weep.

She gave herself a coolly appraising look in the mirror, checking everything was as it should be. Satisfied, she bent over once more to run her fingers through her long hair, ruffling it to bring life to the shaggy curls. She brought her head up, eyes closed to avoid dizziness, and the sudden sensation of a hand over her mouth made her open her eyes immediately. Instinct had made her open her mouth to scream, which just meant the heady fumes of chloroform entered her system quicker than she would have liked.

Panic made her fight the dizziness and her assailant. She kicked out against the basin of the sink, using it to propel her and her attacker backwards into the wall. Despite her fading senses, she heard the crack of her assailant's skull against the cold tiles, and the muffled "Bitch!" hissed in her ear. But the chloroform was insidious and would not be denied, and her body fell limp even as her mind fought for control. Blackness overtook her, and it was over.

Once the fight had ended, the man kept the rag over her mouth for a few more seconds, until he was certain it was no deception and she was truly unconscious. He rubbed the back of his head ruefully, and landed a half-hearted kick into her prone body in revenge. Then, bundling the rest of her clothes and belongings into her bag, he carried it in one hand while supporting her dead weight with his other, half carrying, half dragging her out of the toilets. To his disgust, he almost bumped into two women trying to gain entrance to the toilets. They took a long look at the unconscious woman in his arms. He lowered his head, ostensibly looking at the body, but mainly to hide his features from their curious regard.

"Too much to drink," he muttered, by way of explanation. "I'm just taking her to the hospital."

Before they could argue, he shouldered his way past them, swinging the body up into his arms and carrying her out past the stage doors, through the open back doors leading to the car park. Trying to ignore the curious looks that followed him, he dumped her into the passenger's seat, before starting the car and driving away.

****************************

**Wednesday – June 15th**

Cowley replaced the receiver slowly, mind working quickly over the information he had just received.

The Earl of Rochester, Lord Richard Moncrieffe, was not a man prone to rash behaviour or dramatic posturing. He had served with Cowley, and was one of the few men the old Scot would have trusted to watch his back and keep his calm in the heaviest of fire. And yet he had clearly heard the fear in his old friend's voice. A frantic telephone call from his son, the Viscount, had reported that Rhiannon had not performed that night, and no-one had seen her since Steve had watched her retreat backstage to get changed. Cowley did not know the Lady Moncrieffe personally, but he trusted his friend's estimation of his daughter. Loyal, protective, fiercely independent she may be, but she would not have simply disappeared without a word to anyone. And further questioning had uncovered the two girls who had watched a woman answering to Rhiannon's description being bundled into a waiting car.

His fingers tapped an irritable tattoo on the desktop. His friend's instincts may be dulled by his years of retirement, but Cowley's were sharper than ever. And something wasn't right here, he knew it. He could smell it.

His mind made up, he glanced at his watch. Barely 9am. He had arranged for the Earl to send over a recent photograph together with a brief description and a list of her friends. Once that arrived, he knew what he would do. It was a good job Cowley didn't rate popularity amongst his men high on his list of priorities. 

****************************

Doyle slept facing the wall, his body curled awkwardly on the small sofa, his arm draped over his head in a vague attempt to shut out the light. Tired, joints stiff from ill use, Bodie stood in the kitchen area making a cup of tea, half asleep himself. The tinkling of spoon in cup finally got Doyle's attention and he slowly stirred. 

"Cuppa, sunshine?" asked Bodie.

"Er, yeah, cheers mate. Throat's like the bottom of a parrot's cage."

Bodie brought the cup over and handed it to him, perching on the coffee table next to the sofa.

"Morning after the op before, eh? I never will understand why we have to get our reports done so urgently and at the expense of getting home to a hot bath and bed."

Doyle sipped his tea. "Yeah, it's not as if we're paid enough as it is."

"Still, think of the overtime claim."

"You'll be the lucky one."

George Cowley burst into the room, as usual, his business-like manners urgent, but never rushed. “Bodie, Doyle" he said sharply. “My office, now.”

"Oh come on, sir," said Bodie. "We've just done four days and nights straight on that Tamil Tigers mob."

"No argument, either of you. I have my reasons,” came the curt reply. A swift jerk of the head, and the implacable figure left the room and made for his office.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks before following, resentful as ever of their obedience.

Cowley passed them two glasses of Scotch as they entered his room. Not questioning the hour, they accepted the drink cautiously. The Cow pouring the Scotch himself was rarely a good sign.

"The daughter of the Earl of Rochester, Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe, went missing last night."

"Since when has that been CI5 business?" Bodie's voice was tight with anger. "Sir," he added, catching the warning glance Cowley had thrown his way.

"I'm making it our business, Bodie." Cowley slid behind his desk, indicating the two men to take the seats opposite him.

"What about the police?" Doyle persisted.

"Won't be interested in a missing person til 48 hours have passed," Cowley snapped. "You know damn well."

"And for good reason. Could be anything – row with boyfriend, attention seeking – anything!"

Cowley threw a thin folder across the desk at them, a black and white photograph pinned to the front. Bodie’s eyebrows raised in an appreciative look as he stared at the picture of the girl. Long dark hair framed a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones and fine jaw line, her chin lifted with an air of defiance. "Not a school-girl then." His voice was now calm; there was obviously something more going on here than was immediately apparent.

"No, laddie." Cowley's voice was heavy. "29 years of age, University graduate with a Master's degree. She was due to perform in a band at the Hammersmith Palais last night. She was seen to arrive, last seen going backstage to change."

Doyle took the photo from Bodie's grasp and stared into the strangely beautiful face. "So what makes us think there's something out of the ordinary here?" 

"The reason we don't believe it's anything so straightforward is that I have it on good authority that Lady Moncrieffe would not have backed out on her obligations without at least telling another member of her group." Cowley gave a heavy sigh. "And furthermore, two girls witnessed a woman meeting her description being carried from the back stage area by a large man, packed into a car, and driven away."

"Do we have a description of the man?" Doyle considered the photograph carefully. There was something haunting in the large eyes; they looked older than the face they inhabited.

Cowley looked down at the notes he had made, although his steel trap of a mind didn't require the reminder. "Large man. Mid 30s perhaps. Muscular, like a wrestler, or boxer."

"Or bouncer," Bodie interrupted.

Cowley glanced at him over the top of his glasses. "Not in the employ of the Palais," he replied calmly. He could tell he had their interest now at least. He looked down at the paper again. "Dark hair, wearing white shirt and dark trousers." He threw the paper down and sat back in his chair. "Nothing to go on, just a fleeting glance." He took off his glasses, holding them thoughtfully between finger and thumb. "I've arranged for you to meet the drummer, a Stephen Dwyer, down at the Palais sometime within the hour while I go and speak to her father." The granite face was hard, determined. "There is a complete press embargo on this one – Lord Moncrieffe is a powerful man. And if it is ransom," he paused, as though regretting giving voice to his fear. "Well, if it is, best to keep the press well out of the way. And the local police."

He caught the defensive look in Doyle's eyes and forestalled the argument he saw starting. "Now you know that's straightforward procedure in any kidnap case, Doyle, so don't start defending your former colleagues. No mistakes on this one, gentlemen."

"Understood, sir," Doyle replied, swallowing his argument.

Cowley gave them an appraising glare. "Well? Get a move on!"

Bodie dived for the door, allowing Doyle to escape first. He flashed his best grin at their scowling boss.

"Yes, sir. Running all the way, sir."

*****************

Cowley waited patiently in the outer office, and then allowed the secretary to bustle him efficiently into the plush room within. He strode across to the desk, his hand extended to the sophisticated and aristocratic gentleman who rose to greet him. 

“George, thank you for coming so quickly.” The voice was clipped and precise, but the lips were tight, compressed; the only outward sign of anguish well-hidden. Lord Moncrieffe was a former military man, older than his appearance suggested. A sharp intelligence flickered in the dark eyes. The defiant tilt of the chin was something Cowley had seen in the portrait of his daughter.

“My pleasure, sir. I just hope I can be of help to you at this difficult time.”

The Earl held himself together with remarkable aplomb, Cowley noticed. Only the expert eye could discern any cracks in that so-stiff upper lip. “Don't 'sir' me, George. Not if you know what's good for you." The note of jollity was brief, hollow. "Do you have any - what is it you say? Leads?”

“My best men are working on your daughter's disappearance now. Richard - is there anything you can tell us that would help?” The Scottish burr had a gentle, wheedling quality. Cowley at his subtle best.

“Yes, yes I'm sure there is. I will be relieved to tell somebody about it. Can I offer you a drink?”

“A small Scotch would be welcome.”

Lord Moncrieffe went over to the drinks cabinet and poured them both a generous helping of a fine amber liquid. Handing Cowley one glass, the tall grey haired gentleman returned to his seat, a graceful wave of the hand calling Cowley to the seat next to him.

“I have always been especially proud of my daughter.” The Earl’s voice held a stubborn note, as though defying Cowley to contradict him. "She has never let me down, even though she has made some decisions about her lifestyle that are a little unusual for people of our rank. But she has always been steadfastly determined to be her own person and make her own way in life. Unfortunately, this other world in which she chooses to live has exposed her to people I would prefer she had never met.”

“Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

The Earl sighed. “About a year ago, she got involved with a Religious sect called the Children of the Way." He dismissed Cowley's interruption with a wave of his hand. "Oh, she's never been a particularly religious person, and she's always resented authority." He gave a sigh. "In any event, I was not at all happy and organised a private detective to find out about them. When I was finally able to provide proof of their underhand dealings, I am pleased to say she made the right decision and left.”

“And do you now believe she has returned to them?”

“It is a possibility, but if I know my daughter, it would not have been voluntarily.” He rolled the glass between his hands. "My daughter is a stubborn young woman, but she's no fool. And she doesn't appreciate being taken for one. Unfortunately, I worry that her temper may not help her in her current situation."

He stood and retrieved a lever arch file from the desk that dominated the centre of the room, set in front of large, leaded windows. Returning to his seat, he handed the file to Cowley.

"That was the information I uncovered about the cult, along with some of Rhiannon's notes. She saw some discrepancies in the accounts." The once powerful shoulders shrugged. "Never my strong point," he said apologetically. "Rhiannon's more like yourself, sees patterns in things, sees where patterns should be and aren't."

Cowley considered the assessment carefully. "Her degree was in psychology, yes?"

The Earl nodded. "Yes. First," he added with instinctive pride.

"So she knows how these cults operate? How they take over your life?" Cowley was probing further than the Earl was entirely comfortable, he could tell. 

The Earl gave a sigh and drained his glass. "Her damned boyfriend," he said at last. "The guitarist in the band. It's an unholy alliance, George." The Earl's face was taut with distaste. "A destructive relationship."

Cowley drank back the last of his whisky, unwilling to put his friend through more painful disclosures, and not certain he would learn anything of further use. “Thank you, Richard. You have been most helpful.”

Lord Moncrieffe stood up. “Please find her, George. She's cantankerous, hot-headed, and a hellcat. But she is my daughter. And I love her. I will do whatever it takes to get her back.”

Cowley's stared into the dark blue eyes of the Earl, seeing the pain the proud man was trying so hard to hide. “We will do our level best, I promise you.” He put as much conviction into his voice as he could muster.

 

*****************

Doyle brought his RS2000 to a screeching halt outside the Palais. He and Bodie got out and strode inside through the wide swing doors. 

"Hello, anybody here?" called out Doyle into the vast room. Like any night club, The Palais looked different in daylight, unpainted, unloved, and decidedly seedy. 

A small thin man with greasy black hair and just as greasy a handshake approached them. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Doyle flashed his ID. "We'd like to take a look backstage, if that's possible."

"Yes, of course. This way please, gentlemen, follow me." Even empty, the Palais seemed crowded with ghosts, echoes of previous nights, as though memories and emotions somehow retained a tangible presence. 

Backstage seemed different. Lonelier. As if all the energy, all the life, was focused on the stage and projected straight out into the awaiting black hole of an audience, leaving nothing behind. Back here, it was – tired. Empty somehow. 

The caretaker left them, moving on to his other tasks. Bodie and Doyle ran practiced eyes over the scene, finding nothing helpful. They inspected the toilets, although not holding much hope of finding anything there either.

Curiosity fleetingly took a hold of Bodie as he read some of the more interesting pieces of graffiti lining the stalls.

“Jane Mount is a cheap slag….” he spelled out slowly.

“What’s that?” Doyle appeared alongside him.

Bodie straightened and indicated the insult written in thick red lettering on the door of the stall. “What do you suppose that’s written with?”

Doyle grabbed his hand before it could make contact, almost choking with laughter. “You don’t want to know, mate,” he chuckled.

“No?”

“No. You may have seen the wilds of Africa, sunshine, but that’s nothing compared to what a bunch of women get up to when left to their own devices.” A nod indicated the incinerator nearby, and Doyle nearly doubled with laughter at the sudden start his partner gave.

“They wouldn’t!” The wide eyed shock on Bodie’s face was priceless. It was also, in all the years they had worked together, the first time Doyle had seen it.

“Don’t you believe it!”

Bodie shook himself to dispel the lingering distaste. Doyle lent against the wall, hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans, and Bodie wondered whether there was anywhere in the world his partner couldn’t look at home - even the stall of a ladies’ toilets in Hammersmith. “What else did you learn about the Honourable Lady Moncrieffe then?" Doyle asked; Bodie had been left leafing through the file on the drive over.

"Apparently, she’s a bit of a tearaway.”

“Hence the rock band?”

“Hence the rock band,” Bodie echoed.

“So any idea why anyone would snatch her?”

“Well, her father’s not short of a bob or two, for one thing.”

Doyle remembered the photograph. “Not a bad looker either."

“Really? Can’t say I’d noticed,” his partner replied with dry humour. “Anyway, where's this drummer supposed to be?”

“My, so eager! Aren't you the answer to a young man's prayers." They turned to face a slightly built man, standing framed in the doorway. Long, feather cut blond hair framed a slightly androgynous face. He could have been a model, or a rock star, but his picture would have graced many a sighing teenagers' bedroom wall. He wore a black silk shirt open to the waist. Bodie thought Doyle's jeans were tight enough to cut off the circulation, but this bloke looked like he'd disposed of the jeans and just sprayed a denim colour over his skin. Six inch platform boots completed the ensemble, bringing the diminutive drummer to a height slightly taller than Bodie himself.

Bodie smiled at him, falling easily into camp mode. "Well you can certainly tell class when you see it. What can we do for you?"

The candid grey eyes sparkled. "Well, my love, it's probably more what I can do for you." The lilt of the Welsh Valley's was still strong in the man's voice. "I'm the drummer – Steve Dwyer."

"What can you tell us?" Bodie bestowed his best charming smile on the young man, blue eyes twinkling with a hint of promise. Doyle stood back and let him get on with it. He could tell straightaway that the blond drummer was in full flirt mode, and if Bodie could handle it then Doyle wasn't going to interfere.

Steve's eyes narrowed. "So you haven't found her, then?" Suddenly, the carefully created facade cracked and Bodie and Doyle could see the worry behind the carefree act.

Doyle shook his head. "Nothing yet, mate. But that doesn't mean anything bad." He frowned at Steve's harsh laugh. "You think there's reason why someone would want to grab her?"

"You mean apart from the obvious?" Steve sighed. "Well, it's not common knowledge she's a Lady," he said. "Not round here, anyway. And she's – well," he shrugged. "She's not got many close friends."

"Boyfriend?" Doyle asked. 

Steve's expression darkened. Not good, Doyle noticed. Bodie had caught the change in the drummer's attitude as well. "Gary Daniels. Plays guitar. When he's clean enough to remember how.” The curl of distaste on Steve's lip was instinctive, unconscious. "Been taking drugs for years, he has. Seemed to get it under control but turned out he’d just got better at hiding it. Just lately, he’s stopped pretending.”

“What about Rhiannon?” Doyle asked. The look in Steve's eyes was confused. “Is she a user?”

Steve couldn’t have looked more shocked if Doyle had asked him for a blow job there and then. “Rhia? No fucking way, mate! Never touches ’em, never has. She hates them. Straight as a die, and clean as a whistle, is Rhia. Anyone who says otherwise is a bloody liar.”

And anyone saying otherwise would find out that this slim, fey chap packed quite a punch, Doyle would bet.

“No worries mate. Just have to ask.” Doyle’s unspoken apology seemed to mollify the man slightly.

“No, Gary’s the one who’s got it bad. And now it's got really heavy and I know he owes people money. The wrong kind of people, if you get my drift?" The drummer had lost some of his come-on appeal, genuine concern now in his eyes. "I've seen people hanging about, threatening him."

"Who are these people?" asked Bodie, carefully keeping the hard edge of interrogation from his voice

Steve's expression contained genuine regret. "Sorry, gorgeous, but I don't know names, only that they are local boys. Something to do with the Peabody Estate in Hammersmith."

"Yeah, I know of it," said Bodie. "Did you see anything last night, when Rhiannon was taken?"

"No sorry, pet. It's a rough life being a drummer. I was setting up my kit and humping things from the van. The last I saw of Rhia was when she went off to get changed. And there she was, gone." Doyle smiled at the typically Welsh phraseology. 

"And what about the girls who saw her being dragged away?"

Steve's look was enough to tell Doyle that was a dead end. "Couple of seventeen year old girls with not enough sense to keep away from rock stars?" He drawled, his voice laced more with pity than sarcasm. "Most they could say was the car was dark blue and the bloke looked like a bouncer."

"Well, thank you, Steve, you've been a great help," said Bodie, sliding smoothly back into business mode. "Do you know where we can find Gary?"

"27a, Peabody Mansions, Hammersmith. Here -" he grabbed a poster off a nearby wall, producing a pen from his back pocket, and scrawled the address and a telephone number on the back. "Any time you need me, just call," he added. "My number's on the back. Two numbers – if I'm not at one, I'll be at the other." He pushed the piece of paper into Bodie's hand, his graceful fingers lingering longer than absolutely necessary on Bodie's.

"Er, cheers, thanks" said Bodie. Doyle choked back a laugh at the sudden widening of Bodie's eyes and the slight flush in his cheeks. "Bye then."

"Bye, sweetheart." Steve sighed and his gaze slid appreciatively over the tall, muscular figure, a secret smile curving his sensuous lip. As he turned to walk away, he added, not quite under his breath, "Oh, so gorgeous."

Doyle grinned at Bodie. "Looks like you've pulled," he said, laughing. 

Bodie collected himself self-consciously. "Yeah, well at least I've got us a lead."

"But at what cost, eh? I don't think he's going to leave it at that!"

"Oh shut up, Doyle."

"Now now, hold on to your handbag."

"Shut it, Doyle, before I shut it for you." Bodie’s growl hinted danger, but Doyle was having too much fun to bother about the warning.

"Keep your knickers on Bodie, let's see if we can find this Gary bloke." Bodie nodded and gestured for Doyle to go first. "Just don't bite off more than you can chew this time, sunshine." Doyle threw behind him as he stalked away. Bodie fixed a killing look at the back of his curly haired partner's head, muttering imprecations as he followed in his path.

Doyle stopped as they reached the car, one hand on the door handle. Bodie could feel the humour had died as the situation had reasserted itself on Doyle. Frustration radiated off him in waves. “What have we got to go on, Bodie?"

He gave a consoling smile. “Bugger all, sunshine. But that’s never stopped us before.” He met the furious green eyes with cool appraisal. “Look, we both know the next step. If it's ransom, there’s sod all we can do until they make contact. Then, we’ll know what to do next.”

“Yeah. Too fucking thin, Bodie.” The tension was evident in Doyle’s tightly controlled voice. “It’s too fucking thin." Doyle ground out from clenched teeth, wrenching open the door and slamming it behind him. He had very clear ideas of what happened to junkies’ girlfriends when bills weren’t paid, and he was damned if he was going to let this one be another statistic. 

"Base to 4-5."

Bodie snatched up the radio as the RS roared into life. "3-7"

"Report straight back to base, both of you. There's been a development."

"Acknowledged. 3-7 out."

He caught the determined set of Doyle's profile. "Looks like it's not going to be thin for much longer, sunshine."

"And I was all for finding that scrawny wanker boyfriend and dragging him in." Doyle's voice was hard. "Do you know what pushers do when junkies don't pay their tab, Bodie?" Doyle's anger was building. He didn't wait for Bodie to reply, he didn't need one. "Fucking wanker," he hissed.

 

******************

Rhiannon awoke gradually, nausea building through her with each waking second. Feeling utterly wretched, she vomited noisily, trying to keep the noisome fluid as far away from her as possible. Spasms wracked her as she heaved, nothing left to bring up. She wondered why her ribs hurt so much. It felt as though she'd been kicked by a horse. The dim memory of how that felt rose in her mind, supplying a comparison. But she hadn't been near a horse, had she? With the growing awareness, panic gripped her. She couldn't see. Was she blind? She struggled, finding herself bound, but the motion brought back the nausea and she was again piteously dry heaving, feeling cold concrete floor against her forehead. Ropes tied her wrists together, and her ankles. She was lying on a floor, that much she could tell, but any other indications of her surroundings were lost in the giddiness that still overcame her.

Blindfolded, she realised with a sudden relief that almost made her smile. Not blind. Blindfolded.

And the awful burning of her lips - chloroform. She remembered. And with the memory came a cold fury. Some bastard was going to pay for this.

She tried to sit up, to take a better stock of her surroundings, to allow her senses to compensate. She gave out a sudden cry as she felt something brush against her face once more, panicked into thinking it meant more chloroform.

"It's a clean handkerchief, child. Let me wipe your mouth." The voice was strangely gentle given the situation. She felt soft cotton brush against her lips, and a cool hand move her hair from her face.

Rhiannon allowed the calm, gentle voice to continue, pretending a submission even while her anger raged inside. Cool hands gently washed her face with warm, lavender scented water, but the blindfold remained in place.

"Such false trappings only ruin your natural beauty," the soft voice crooned as they removed her make-up. "It will seep into your inner self, spoiling your pure essence, destroying the only beauty that truly matters."

Oh fuck, she thought to herself. All this can only mean one thing. And she didn't like it, not in the least.

"Why did you run away, child? Don't you realise it's only you who suffers? You are only running away from yourself?"

No I'm not, her mind screamed. I'm running away from nutters like you. Only I obviously didn't run far or fast enough.

She felt more hands on her, helping her to stand. Cautious relief entered her mind as she felt the cords at her ankles being removed, but the relief was short lived when she felt rougher hands raise her arms above her head, feeling the rope between her wrists caught on something she realised must be a hook of some sorts. She fought against her rising panic as she felt herself raised up until only the tips of her feet still maintained contact with the floor.

Fear loosened her tongue. "I'm not meant to be here," she said, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice, trying to battle with her rising panic to find a way of dealing with the madness she knew she had been caught up in once more. "I left so I wouldn't tarnish you with my impurity. So that I could purge you of my evil."

She couldn't place the people she knew were near her. She only knew there must be at least two of them, for she had felt their hands. But she also knew that there had to be at least another one, a supervisor, ensuring that none of her falsehoods could confuse those burdened with the task of bringing her back into the fold.

"Foolish child," the gentle voice spoke again, tinged with regret. "Do you think your impurity is greater than any we have dealt with before? Did you really believe your evil could possibly hold sway over our Great Truths?"

She didn't know which pain took precedence, the burning in her wrists where the roughness of the rope had begun to slowly wear away the skin, or the tearing sensation in her shoulders from the weight of her body hanging from what now felt like such weak joints. She arched her feet, pointing her toes to get better contact with the ground just beneath her, thinking of the years of ballet. She felt a strange tremor in her chest; she wanted to laugh. The thought that hours of practice en pointe should be used simply to reduce the burning chafe in her wrists and the wrenching of her arms suddenly seemed amusing. And she recognised the hysteria building inside her, adding to the fear and the fury.

"Do you know why you are here?" The voice came from behind her now. If she concentrated, ignored the thundering of her own heart beat and the dry rasping sound of her breath, she could feel the soft movement around her as the Voice circled her. She concentrated on that, on following the movement in her mind.

"Who is that? Hope?" she asked. With her arms raised above her head, her breathing was shallow, the position restricting the air intake of her lungs. She remembered this was how crucifixion killed people, according to some accounts. The inability to breathe properly, combined with the weakness of pushing against a small point at the base of the feet.

"Hope?" she asked again, her voice a gasp. She concentrated on everything else around her, trying to block out the pain, the discomfort, the hysteria still lingering on the edges of a memory of a long forgotten voice barking out instructions in French as a stick beat time on the floor. 

"Do you have hope, child?" 

They want to wear me down, she thought, finding again that hot, hard centre of anger that had been almost lost in the fear. They want to make me sell empty smiles to sad, lonely people who only need friends; friends, not people who will take all you have, take all you are, and treat it like dirt. They want to know who I know, whether any of them will be useful, whether any of them have money, power.

 _My father. My brother. Steve._ The thought cut through the pain, banishing it, as the anger took over. They take you away from your family and friends. They leave you with nothing. They tell you when to eat, when to sleep, when to speak, to whom you may speak. 

She was no longer aware of the voice, as it continued to walk around her, telling her how everything would be well again, how none of it was her fault. She was weak. With them she could be strong. It was because of the evil that had surrounded her, it was jealous of her strength. It knew she should be free, that she didn't belong with the dirt and petty concerns of the world. She was beyond that. And because she was so pure, so free, so beautiful, that evil had tried to take her away from those who would free her, those who recognised her for what she was.

What she was. What I am. The anger focused only on what it wanted to hear, what it needed to feed it.

She didn't know what she looked like. A blindfold can fool the mind into thinking that it is merely darkness; that because you cannot see, others cannot see you. She didn't know, then, that her breathing had changed, the shallow gasps of pain had become almost measured, rhythmical; that her body was held in balance, each muscle taut, taking the strain of physical pain and inner fury; or that her mouth was open in a feral grin, breath hissing through bared teeth, as her head lowered into her chest.

"If that's you, Hope," her voice was soft, but it stopped the chanting, measured pace of the Voice that tried to surround her. Silence filled the gaps between her words. "If that's you, you two-faced, back-stabbing, brain dead whore." She raised her head to the darkness, blindly staring ahead. "I'm going to rip your head off and spit down your fucking throat!"

Silence, broken only by the sound of her own breathing, ragged now, the anger having spent some of the energy it had provided.

Suddenly, savagely, her feet were taken out from under her, a swift sweep of someone's leg knocking her from her carefully held position. She cried out, anger mixed with pain, as her arms were forced to carry her weight, the sudden drop yanking already strained muscles. She hung for a few seconds, head thrown back, concentrating again on building the anger within her. She reached out for the floor with both feet, toes stretched out again. Deliberately, defiantly, she resumed her position en pointe. 

"Why do you think you're here?" The Voice asked again, close to her right ear this time. Oh, that voice. Yes. Now she guessed who it was.

Again the blindfold tricked her into showing her feelings. A faint smile pulled at the side of her mouth. "Because you want to save me?" she replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

She expected it this time, but it didn't stop the cry of pain, as her legs were taken out from under her again, and again the sudden shock of weight on her arms made her world flash white under the blindfold, her eyes seeing pain when they could not see anything else.

The Voice hissed again, right against her ear. "Guess again."

 

**************************

 

Bodie and Doyle entered Cowley's office, Bodie assuming his usual almost military stance, while Doyle lounged bonelessly against the wall behind his partner.

"Ransom note. Delivered just as I was leaving Lord Moncrieffe." Cowley barked, barely registering their appearance with more than a brief glance over his dark framed glasses. He threw the bag containing the note across the desk. Bodie retrieved it.

" 'We have the girl. Do not contact the police or she dies. The price of her freedom is £200,000' " he looked over his shoulder to share a whistle of surprise with Doyle. " 'We will be in touch again. Do not make any mistakes. Do not underestimate us.' " Bodie finished, turning the paper over, checking for anything else. "That's it?"

"No fingerprints, nothing." Cowley's clipped tones betrayed his frustration. "What did you find out from the drummer?"

"Boyfriend's a junkie. Drummer's definitely a Friend of Dorothy. Seems to be some suggestion that it's something to do with the boyfriend's suppliers." Bodie reported in his familiar laconic tone.

"And what's your assessment, Doyle?"

Doyle shifted position slightly, allowing the opposite hip to hold the wall up for a change. "I'm not so sure, sir."

Cowley's sharp grey eyes raised over his glasses once more. With a swift movement, he removed them, piercing his two operatives with a keen, appraising glance.

"Oh? And why's that?" His voice was strangely gentle compared to the hawk like stare.

Doyle shrugged. "Pushers would write to the boyfriend, not her father. If they wrote at all. And Steve said next to no-one knew whose daughter she was." He shook his head. "Nah, it's not their style. They'd cut her up, use it to send a message; or fill her up with junk and put her on the streets. This," he indicated the note in Bodie's hand. "This is a bit stylish for them. And £200,000 is hell of a lot more than a drug IOU."

Cowley sat back in his chair, rewarding Doyle with a tight lipped smile. "Aye, laddie, that's what's bothering me as well." He reached across his desk and picked up another buff coloured file, throwing it into Bodie's hands. "Take a look at that." Doyle levered himself from his position, obviously trusting the wall to remain standing without his help, and glanced at the file over his partner's shoulder as Cowley continued. "It seems Lady Moncrieffe was involved in a cult about twelve months ago, probably talked into it by some friends. She left when given evidence of their less than altruistic leanings, but her father seems to think they may not let her go so easily."

"Children of the Way," Bodie read from the file.

"I've heard of them," Doyle chipped in. "Believe some weird alien stuff about them coming down and teaching primitive man, before disappearing back into the heavens. Summat about evil alien spirits being reincarnated in human form, and doing battle with good alien spirits."

Bodie favoured his partner with a wide-eyed expression of disbelief. "I can't believe some of the rubbish you read, goldilocks."

"Never said I believed it, did I?" he snapped back.

"Aye, well it's as well you know what you do, 4-5," Cowley interrupted. "I want you to infiltrate the sect and find out whether they've taken Lady Moncrieffe."

Bodie turned his disbelieving look at the controller. "Now wait a minute, sir. You can't expect Doyle to get inside a cult like this and track one girl - it'd take months to gain their trust, and by that time, anything could have happened. She might not even want bloody rescuing."

"After a couple of months, sir, there may not be much left to rescue," Doyle added, for once his voice considerably more reasonable than his partner's.

"She was in it for nigh on six months, 4-5, and came out no worse for it," Cowley said, his voice edged with something that sounded like admiration, Bodie realised. "Her father thinks she found something."

"Well, if that's the case, they wouldn't be ransoming her, would they? They'd just silence her."

Cowley regarded Bodie carefully. "Well, now, that all depends whether they want to lead us right to their front door, now, doesn't it?" he said softly.

"Make it look like something else." Doyle's eyes narrowed as Cowley nodded.

"Aye. Blame the junkie boyfriend, blame some kidnappers out for cash, but don't blame the cult. That's why I want you in there. I want to know just how dangerous these people can be." He gave Doyle an amused look, taking in everything from the tips of his motorcycle boots to the messy curls of his hair. "Free spirits, roving the universe? You should fit right in." His tone changed back to his usual curt snap. “There’s a recruitment meeting that starts at 1700 hours at a small disused theatre in Aldwych. Find your way in from there.”

“And what am I supposed to be doing while Doyle's becoming an alien spirit?” said Bodie.

"You check on the junkie boyfriend, just in case this really is as a simple as it looks. And you’ll back up Doyle as always, keep in touch every step of the way. ”

“Right, sir. Yes, sir” said Bodie, obviously not at all happy with the arrangement. 

 

******************************

With more than a little frustration, Bodie knocked for the third time on the door of the council flat, again without response. Peering through the letter-box provided no obvious information. He checked the lock, happily confirming that it should be an easy one to crack. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a credit card and a lock pick, and in one easy movement he was inside. He pulled out his Browning and cautiously made his way down the hall. 

The only sounds he could hear were the noises from outside, children screaming, doors slamming. With years of practice, he tuned out the background sounds, reaching out to hear for any indication of trouble, any hint of danger. As he reached the first closed door, he hesitated for a moment, leaning against the wall; not for the first time he thought about how much he hated doing this kind of thing without Doyle as backup.

With one swift movement, he kicked the door in and leapt into the room in a crouch, ready to drop and roll if necessary. It took him only a second to realise his caution was unnecessary.

A man lay slumped on the scruffy looking sofa, a belt tied around his upper arm, the needle still sticking out of his vein. Bodie quickly put his gun in the waistband of his trousers and sat down next to him. His fingers moved to the side of the neck to feel a fluttery, far too quick pulse.

Bodie held the man's head between his hands, bringing their eyes level as he shook him, gently tapping his face to get some reaction.

"Gary? Gary Daniels?" The eyes focused briefly and the man nodded, before his head lolled backwards. Bodie checked his eyes, they had rolled up, showing whiteness rather than colour. The sickly pallor of the man's skin showed up harshly against his black hair, which clung to his clammy forehead.

Bodie pulled out his R/T.

“3-7.”

“Come in, 3-7.”

“I need an ambulance to 27a, Peabody Mansions, Hammersmith.”

“Affirmative, 3-7.”

“Pass on to Alpha One that the boyfriend is in a bad way and might have OD’d. 3-7 out.”

Bodie sat back and looked at the young man, shaking his head with a bone-weary sadness. He had seen far too much of this kind of self destruction. He had no idea how old Gary was; he could be 20 or 50. One thing was certain; he couldn't imagine this rake thin mess with the Rhiannon he'd heard about. It didn't make sense.

Instinctively he put the back of his hand on Gary’s forehead as if to feel his temperature. As he did so, Gary let out a low groan, his eyes flickered and his head and upper body rolled forward. Bodie caught him and lay him down flat on the sofa.

“Alright mate, you’re going to be alright,” said Bodie, knowing full well that he was lying through his teeth.

 

***********************************

 

Rhiannon hung from her wrists, her anger now just a dull ache somewhere in her centre. She wouldn't let it go; couldn't release it. It gave her control.

She heard movement nearby, footsteps coming closer. It sounded like she was being held in a large bathroom. Noises echoed emptily, as though there was nothing to absorb them. The room was not cold, or damp. It felt remote somehow. There was no sound outside the room. No traffic, no people.

She tensed as she felt someone step closer to her, the scent of sweat and aftershave filling her nostrils, telling her this was a man even before she felt the large hand sweep down her chest, in between her breasts, stopping briefly at the top of her trousers. She stilled beneath the touch, knowing that, blinded as she was, she had no chance of kicking out, even if she had the strength. The smell got closer to her, and she could feel the warmth of another body standing in front of her. She gasped involuntarily as the hand suddenly swept between her legs, cupping her groin. She tried to squirm away, but the other hand reached against her back, pulling her back against him.

"That's quite enough of that." The clipped voice snapped from somewhere else in the room. Rhiannon had not heard her enter. "You must learn not to rush these things."

She heard the stiletto heels draw closer. Her head twitched in different directions as she tried to follow the people in the room. A silvery noise caught her attention, causing her mouth to drop open as she recognised the noise. The blade was pressed gently against her cheek, as if to make sure she understood. She could not control the flinch, nor the sob of fear rising from her stomach.

The blade was removed, and she felt hands begin to strip her. She gritted her teeth, throwing back her head as she tried to stifle the humiliation. They wanted to hear her beg. Terror made her honest with herself – if she thought for one second begging would help, she would do it. She would swallow her pride and beg for anything, if only it would work. But she knew it wouldn't; knew it would only make things worse. So she stifled her gasps as best she could as she felt the cold blade slice through her clothing, felt the cool air against her skin, as slowly, remorselessly, she was stripped.

Shock made her stop breathing as cold water was thrown across her. She tried to close her mouth to stop it gagging her, but the piercing cold was too great. Another bucketful of water was thrown over her, and another, the cold itself like knives across her skin.

When it stopped, she heard the steady drip of the water running off her, felt it trickling down her skin. Senses heightened by the cold and her blindness, she felt the movement of air as the woman stepped away from her, and heard a soft swish of something else coming closer. A dull 'thwapping' noise caused her ears to prick, and her mind raced to place the sound. Terror gripped her as she realised what it was, just seconds before the leather tawse struck her naked back. She arched, the pain causing her to pull up on her wrists, bringing her feet further from the floor as instinct tried to take her further away from the next lashing. Nothing would stop the scream bursting from her mouth as the tawse worked steadily and thoroughly across her back, from one side to the other. Not sharp enough to draw blood, not hard enough to break skin or bone; just enough to turn freezing pain into burning, to take the numbness of the cold and thrust it into a furnace of pain.

Her throat hoarse, raw with screaming, she hung limply from the hook as the tawse moved further down her body, across thighs and calves. By the time they reached the front of her legs, she was incapable of any movement except the sway from the impact of the tawse. The cold that had numbed her was forgotten in the sweat of pain. 

She felt fingers grasp her face, felt a hand sweep across her forehead. "It is so much better to take your time over these things," the woman's voice said softly.

Rhiannon was only dimly aware of the receding footsteps. She let the pain take her, and she passed out.

****************

 

Doyle sat in the RS2000 across the street from the theatre, watching the small crowd of people arriving, milling around at the entrance, greeting each other with hugs. He took off his leather jacket, hoping that his plain white t-shirt and jeans would be sufficient camouflage. He took off his holster and gun and hid it under the seat. From out of the glove box he took a smaller gun, which he taped to the inside of his lower leg. His R/T was too big and bulky; he was going to have to leave it behind. He picked it up to check in.

“4-5 to 3-7.”

“3-7.”

“Just about to go to the meeting now. I'll have to leave the R/T behind.”

“Right. Let me know when you’re back out. I’m at the hospital now but will join you once the meeting’s over.”

“How is he?”

“Hasn’t recovered consciousness yet. I’m not expecting much.”

Doyle clicked his tongue in disappointment. The boyfriend could have been their best chance. Instead, it would be the hard way, as usual. “Okay, 4-5 out.”

“Ray?”

“Yeah?”

There was light hesitancy in Bodie’s voice. “Take care in there. I don’t like fanatics. They’re unpredictable.”

He grinned at the worry clear in his partner‘s message. As if he needed the warning. “Cheers mate. 4-5 out.”

 

************************************

 

Doyle allowed himself to fade into the crowd milling around the small room. He’d anticipated a larger venue inside, but it appeared the group had opted for one of the smaller function rooms. To allow for familiarity, but also to keep tabs on any comings and goings, he assumed. He held back his usual posture, allowing himself to appear small and unassuming. Size could be an advantage both ways. 

He had expected a lecture, something similar to Cowley’s ex, Annie Irvine. Some rousing speech, delivered Nuremberg style, from a lectern on a stage. He hadn’t expected to find a room full of what could only be described as fully fledged disciples descending on any newcomers like vultures on a carcass. He shook himself to dislodge the unpleasant image, and plastered his best self-effacing smile on his face as two disturbingly beautiful women made eye contact and set a direct line for him. Maybe this undercover wouldn’t be quite so unpleasant after all.

**********************************

 

“Mr. Bodie….”

“Just Bodie.” He corrected the nurse for what felt like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes.

“…Mr. Daniels is in no state for visitors, and I certainly cannot allow any questions,” she continued, as if Bodie hadn’t spoken.

“This is important….”

“I’m sure it is,” she interrupted coolly, obviously completely oblivious to how important it was. “But.”

“There are no ‘buts’, nurse,” Bodie interrupted, tired of playing the game her way. He flashed his ID. “A woman’s life is in danger, and that man in there holds information that may save her. Now,” he cut off any other word she was about to say with a final gesture of his hand, “I understand you want to protect your patient, but quite frankly, he’s put himself in here. It’s his doing.”

She bristled at the callous words, eyes flashing angrily. “And you’re such a paragon, to be so judgmental of other’s weaknesses?”

Bodie let her words wash over him. She wanted to appeal to his better nature, but she obviously didn’t know he hadn’t got one. Not where this was concerned.

“And you’re prepared to let an innocent woman die just to let a self-inflicted junkie have a few hours peace,” he snarled back.

She stepped back from the dangerous gleam in those midnight-blue eyes. She was prepared to lose the battle, but not, it seemed, the war. “Rest assured, Mr. Bodie, your behaviour will not go unreported.”

“Same here, sister. Now move it.”

Despite his flare of temper, Bodie entered the room quite sedately, approaching the body carefully. The too-bright glitter of bloodshot eyes watched him, the skin of the young man pale and streaming with sweat.

“Can you hear me, Gary?” Bodie’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

The frantic eyes did not leave his face, but there was no response.

“I need your help, Gary.” Bodie continued, in the same sweetly soft voice. “Rhiannon needs your help.”

That provoked a response. The shaking, sweating man seemed to try to sit up in bed, his mouth working through the chattering teeth, trying to speak. Bodie moved closer, willing him to have the strength to give them something - anything - to go on.

“What is it, Gary?” he prompted.

To his surprise, the pain wracked figure simply giggled. Laughter shook his frame, although the effort was obviously agony. Beckoning weakly for Bodie to come nearer, he complied, bringing his ear closer to the dying man.

“Let the bitch suffer,” he whispered hoarsely. Bodie’s head whipped around, his eyes meeting the grinning face, before unconsciousness claimed the guitarist, and he fell into a stupor.

Bodie’s jaw clenched. “You bastard,” he muttered.

 

**********************

 

“So how long have you ladies been a part of this group?” said Doyle, giving them a shy smile and doing his best to look awkward and unsure of himself.

“Sky joined two months ago. I recruited her myself,” said the blond proudly. “My name’s Hope. What’s yours?”

 

“Ray.”

 

“Oh, like a Sunray. How lovely!”

 

He smiled again, and carried on with some gentle questioning, not wanting to seem too curious, taking care to show just enough interest in what was going on around him and no more. Too many questions at this stage would stir suspicion. 

In the corner of the room stood a slight woman who watched the gathering intently. She was in her early 50s, silvering hair pulled back in a tight bun and wearing an impossibly old fashioned twin set and a tweed skirt. Her gaze hovered over to where Doyle was sitting with the two girls. She gestured to a man across the room who quickly walked over to join her.

“Vincent, who are Sky and Hope talking to?” she asked in a low voice.

“A new recruit Miss Grey. I believe he arrived about half an hour ago”

 

“Do we have any previous history yet?”

 

“No ma‘am. Shall I enquire?”

 

“No, leave it to me.” She walked carefully across towards them, not taking her eyes off Doyle for a moment. “Girls, aren’t you going to introduce me to this charming young man?”

Hope jumped up immediately. “Oh Miss Grey! Yes of course. His name is Ray. He’s new and very nervous.” She turned towards Doyle. “Miss Grey will be able to help you with anything you are not sure about, Ray,” she said with a warm smile.

Doyle stood politely, taking her proffered hand. The handshake was cool, carefully modulated to be friendly but not overbearing. He noted her appearance. He felt instinctively that there was something not quite right. Outwardly she seemed totally respectable, but it seemed almost a caricature, somehow not real. The pearls, twin set, tweed skirt, hair and glasses all made her look like a vicar’s wife from a Famous Five novel, but there was something in her eyes and smile that felt incredibly false.

“And how did you hear about our little group?” she asked.

“I saw your posters and decided to see what it was all about. I waited outside for a long time to get up the courage to come in.”

“I see, and what do you do in the outside world, Ray?”

“I’m unemployed, I’m living rough at the moment. I thought maybe that would mean I wouldn’t be welcome.” He looked down at his feet, doing a very good impression of someone who felt ashamed at what life had thrown at him.

“All those who come to be saved, are loved,” she said, placing a thin hand on his shoulder. Then she suddenly looked beyond him, as if distracted. “Please forgive me, I must circulate. Girls, look after our new friend.”

Gleefully, Hope took his hand and sat back down with him, reaching out with her other hand towards Sky, making a circle around the table with their arms.

In the background, Miss Grey approached the bulky figure who had gestured to her. “What is it, Jackson?” she said harshly.

The henchman lent forward so he could speak to her quietly. “I know him. He’s a copper, or used to be.”

“Are you sure?”

“He pulled me in for GBH once, a long time ago. Just give me the chance to pay him back, that’s all I ask.”

“You will do nothing of the kind until I give the sanction. Is that clear?” The clipped, precise tones brooked no argument.

“Yes, Miss Grey.”

She looked back across the room towards Doyle, the dark brown eyes calculating. “We will have to tell Dr. Sharpe about this one,” she said more to herself than the hulking muscle beside her.

 

*****************************

A couple of hours later, Doyle parked the RS2000 down a side road and walked along The Strand to meet Bodie in The Coal Hole. The stained glass door opened into the noisy and smoky interior. Locating Bodie in the far corner, he made his way towards him. “Drink?” he asked.

“Mmm, cheers mate, I’ll have a pint.”

Getting himself a vodka and orange, he carried the two drinks across and plonked himself down at the table.

“How did it go?” asked Bodie, taking the top off his pint.

“Bunch of nutters mate. Complete nutters. I feel sorry for some of them, but there was this one in charge. Well - talk about a battleaxe.” Doyle’s green eyes widened at the memory.

“Yeah? I’ve had a bit of that today as well. The Sister looking after our boy was a bit of hard work.”

“Did you get anything out of him?” asked Doyle.

The dark blue eyes flared. “Bastard knew, Ray. He knew. Sold her out.” Bodie’s voice was brittle with anger.

Doyle frowned, his drink forgotten. “What do you mean?”

Bodie sighed heavily. “I don’t know, mate. Dunno what kind of deal he’s done. But he’s got no intention of helping us find her, that’s for sure.”

“Bastard.”

Doyle’s assessment, while quieter, probably held more venom than Bodie’s explosion.

“What’s your next move then?” asked Bodie, sipping his beer.

“I’ve agreed to meet up again tomorrow lunch time. There's a gorgeous young blond who wants to talk to me some more.” 

“Playing your last puppy in the shop look?” Bodie smirked.

“Never fails, mate. Have ‘em eating out the palm of me hand.”

“Yeah, you just make sure you do, sunshine.” The teasing note had left Bodie’s voice, concern for his partner now evident. “Can’t bet they’re going to be that much of a push over.”

They paused for a minute, downing their drinks and reflecting on the frustrating day behind them, and the potential for more of the same tomorrow.

“Another drink, mate?” said Bodie, getting up with his wallet in his hand.

“Thought you’d never ask,” said Doyle, grinning up at him. He got the impression they were in for a long night.

Doyle looked around the room, taking in the scene before him. There was something about London pubs that he had always loved, not just the buildings themselves which were old and full of atmosphere, but the people who frequented them. Theatre crew members grabbing a quick pint between acts, prostitutes checking out potential clients, old dears supping on a gin and orange, bankers who didn't want to go home to their empty flats, shoppers and tourists who had just popped in for a quick one before catching the tube home. They all fitted in to the very fabric of the place like the ghost of many a drinker going back centuries. 

As he looked from one to the other, he caught the eye of a pretty girl with straight dark hair, standing at the bar with her friend. He gave her a smile as she turned towards him, and leaning back on the bar, she gave him a warm smile in return. She whispered something to her friend who laughed and very obviously turned around to check him out. He suddenly noticed the crash helmets on the floor beside them, and the leather bike jackets they were holding. As Bodie came back with the drinks both girls watched him walk by and then collapsed in a fit of giggles. 

Bodie sat down and gave Doyle his drink, looking at his amused face in confusion. "What?" he asked. Before Doyle could explain both girls approached their table.

"Can we buy you a drink?" said the dark haired girl.

Doyle met her smile with an appraising grin of his own, and stood up. "We've just got one, but if you'd like to join us we'd love to get you one instead."

He pulled up two chairs and the girls sat down next to each other, putting their crash helmets and jackets on the floor by the table. "What'll it be?" he asked.

"A Jack Daniels and coke for me, and a G and T for the lady, please" she said. Doyle held his hand out to Bodie, not breaking eye contact with the dark haired girl. When nothing was forthcoming, he turned to look at his partner.

"It was your round, mate!" he said. Instead of giving Doyle any money Bodie just gave him his whole wallet, and waved him away like a waiter. The girls laughed good naturedly, exchanging looks. 

As Doyle went to the bar Bodie chatted to the girls. The dark haired girl was Raven; the one with lighter brown hair was Shirl. He made polite noises about the unusual names, but Raven's attention kept drifting to watch Doyle at the bar, while Shirl looked shyly but intently through her eyelashes at Bodie.  
Bodie leaned in very close. He took a deep breath, eyes closed teasingly, wondering what perfume Shirl was wearing.

"Chanel No 5?" he asked, dark blue eyes intense as they gazed into her hazel ones. She blushed a little.

"Two stroke oil," she replied. They laughed with genuine amusement. 

Doyle came back with the drinks, both large ones, and sat back down. "So, do you ride then?" he said, leaning forward towards Raven with a grin.

She picked up her drink and raised it politely, blue eyes twinkling. "If you're offering," she said. 

Their eyes met, and she laughed. He joined in. Evenings didn't get much less complicated than this.

*************************

Miss Grey paced impatiently up and down the dark corridor, her hands clasped behind her back. It had been a few minutes since her knock on the door, but it was customary for those without appointments to be kept waiting.

“Come,” said a voice from inside.

She entered the room and stood nervously, trying not to stare at the tall attractive man who was seated there. The public face of Children of the Way, Dr. John Sharpe was good looking in the extreme, and eminently capable of dealing with the press, converts and those donating money, with equal efficiency.

He continued reading through the papers on his desk, not deigning to raise his head to acknowledge her presence. “Miss Grey, I’m a very busy man. What is it that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Dr. Sharpe, I’m very grateful you could see me." She tried to keep her voice calm, to hide the flush of pleasure she felt whenever she was near him. "We have a slight problem.”

“That’s what I pay you to take care of, Miss Grey.”

She wanted him to look at her, found his denial of this one basic thing like a delicious pain. “Yes, sir, but I didn’t want to take action without your authority.” Her voice remained neutral.

“Is it about the girl?”

“No, sir, we have her - shall we say - in hand." And she would make her pay for this torment. Every second Sharpe refused to look at her would be paid in interest on the bound girl's flesh. "This is another matter.”

“Well, spit it out, woman. What’s the problem?” Irritation made his voice hard, adding another score to be settled on the surrogate.

“I believe we have been infiltrated by a policeman of some kind.”

Sharpe stood up and walked towards her, suddenly interested. “How do you know?”

She tried to hide the relief as he finally looked at her. “He came to the meeting in Aldwych tonight. He was recognised.”

“What aspect of our work is he investigating?”

“I wasn’t able to find out, sir, but I will if you give me the go ahead to remove him.” Eagerness edged into her voice. If someone threatened Sharpe, she wanted nothing more than to make them suffer for their audacity; make them pay for the humiliation she felt for any perceived slight she received from Sharpe.

Sharpe put his hand firmly on Miss Grey’s arm, squeezing intently. “Take him, and find out what he knows. Do not dispose of him until I consider the issue further. Keep me fully informed, Miss Grey.”

She could still feel the warmth of his hand through her jacket, even as he moved away back to his desk. “Yes, sir, you can rely on me totally,” said Miss Grey, pride in her voice.

 

**********************

**Thursday – June 16th**

"4-5 to 3-7." Doyle leaned back in the seat of the Escort, squinting his eyes into the bright morning sunshine.

"3-7."

"All sorted mate. I've just dropped the girls back where they left their bikes."

"Surprised they're still capable of getting their leg over anything." Bodie's lazy arrogance prompted a grin from Doyle. "How's my shirt looking?" he added. 

"Better on me. Thanks for the loan. I'm just hoping the laundry will be able to get the Jack Daniels out of mine."

"She did offer to suck it out."

Doyle gave a filthy chuckle. "You're not getting information out of me that easily. What's the plan now?"

"I'm going to the hospital, see if our boy's awake enough to talk yet."

"Okay. Betty says she's got a heap of files for me to go through, background on Children of the Way. Suppose I'd better look like I know what I'm talking about. Meeting back at the open house about one o'clock."

"Right." Bodie paused. "By the way - how did you get on last night?"

Another dirty laugh. "That would be telling sunshine, and I'm too much of a gentleman!"

"Oh of course you are," Bodie's sarcasm was obvious. "Okay, check in later?"

"Okay. 4-5 out."

 

****************************  
　

Bright lights kept her awake. She hadn't been allowed to stay unconscious for long. More cold water had brought her round. Nothing had been said as they cut her down, unbinding her hands, leaving her to lie where she fell. She hadn't been allowed to sleep, even if she had been able to find a comfortable position. She found the room warmer on one side than the other, so gravitated to the extra warmth. 

She had no idea how long she had been here. It could have been a day or a month. Whenever it seemed likely she would fall asleep, more water would be thrown over her, or someone would bang incessantly on the locked door.

The room itself was around ten foot square, tiled floors and walls, with a dirty ceiling. There was a flight of ten steps leading to the door. The staircase itself was against the wall, quite steep and narrow, the door opening into the room. The light was bright, fluorescent. She thought she was in a cellar perhaps. There was no windows to give any definite indication. She didn't even know if she was still in London. She closed her eyes wearily at the sound of the bolt being drawn from the door.

Footsteps, harsh metallic sounds on the tiled floor, signalled the approach of a woman. The footsteps stopped in front of her, and cruel fingers grasped her face in a hard grip, sharp nails digging into the flesh of her cheeks with callous disregard. She tried to keep her expression neutral as she looked into the cold, dark brown eyes of Miss Grey.

Grey, however, was too much of an expert not to recognise the slight flare of fear in the young woman's blue eyes, no matter how well disguised it was. A cold smile crept across her prim features, turning the school mistress look into something far more dangerous, something hungry.

The hard grip released her face. With a nod, Miss Grey indicated for the two men to haul Rhiannon to her feet, showing callous disregard for the painful bruises or the humiliation of nakedness.

"This is Mr. Vincent and Mr. Jackson." The soft voice introduced the two men as though it were the Queen's enclosure at Ascot. "They deal with the less.... public... aspects of our organisation."

Rhiannon's expression was neutral. "What's any of that got to do with me?" she asked. Her voice sounded strange, hoarse and broken.

Miss Grey gave her a look of mocking disapproval. "You kept secrets, my dear. We opened our doors to you, and you repaid us with lies." She smiled. "But we will be fully remunerated once your father pays."

Rhiannon tried to laugh. "My father?"

Grey's face hardened. "Yes. The Earl." She noticed with satisfaction the smile fade from Rhiannon's face. "Ah yes, my dear. The important thing you forgot to mention. A father worth a fortune, and with a seat in the House of Lords." She tutted slowly. Content with the look of despair on Rhiannon's face, she indicated the two men beside her. "And the rest of your stay will be in the capable hands of these gentlemen."

"I'm not worth anything dead." Defiance flared again in the girl's eyes. Grey smiled again. This would last a long time, she vowed. This time, there would be more; Grey had never liked toys that broke easily.

She gave a silent signal to Jackson and Vincent, and the two men lifted the young woman, bringing her further into the room. Her eyes widened, unable to hide her fear at what she expected next. Miss Grey took especial delight in that fear, relishing it, allowing it to grow as they bound her arms behind her and her ankles tightly together. Then, lifting her with ease, they lay her on the cold concrete floor, and Rhiannon wondered whether it was truly possible to die of fright. They arranged her so she lay at an angle, her head lower than her feet. While her feverish mind worked on what she feared would happen next, a rag was placed over her mouth and nose. One of the men held her legs firmly, while the other held her shoulders down with ease. Although this wasn't what she had expected, she could not feel relief at the unexpected change.

"I have no intention of killing you, child," Grey spoke into the wild blue eyes, seeing all the possibilities flash through the young woman's mind. She loomed over Rhiannon, all trace of respectability flayed from her features by the raw, naked pleasure in her eyes at the sight of the helpless woman, and gave a sigh. "You see, I get bored so easily. And sometimes, my dear, it's the simplest things that have the greatest effect," she said softly, as she started to pour water slowly onto the rag covering Rhiannon's mouth. 

She watched in delight as the eyes widened, as the body thrashed helplessly against the men holding her with ease. She was bound in such a way that she would not damage herself, and Grey knew that this could not be done for any length of time, twenty minutes at most; and water could only be applied for a matter of seconds. But it was the timing that made it so pleasurable. The way it could be drawn out, the hungry gasps of air whenever the rag was raised. Other than that, there was very little sound, the gag reflex and sensation of drowning preventing any screams. But that silence was what made this such a luxury, so different from other things that could evoke any other kind of noises.

She sighed with pleasure, and counted the seconds again as she poured more water.

 

*************************************

 

Bodie paused at the entrance to the hospital, dreading the prospects that lay ahead. He wanted to take hold of the painfully thin guitarist and thrash the information out of him. He could think of dozens of ways to make the man beg to talk, plead to be allowed to help them find Rhiannon. Poor bitch, he thought bitterly. Kidnapped, and betrayed by her own boyfriend. Who said money could buy you happiness?

His control restored and implacable, he entered the ward, making straight for the private room that held Gary Daniels. His hand raised to push the door open, he was startled when it was suddenly wrenched from his grip, and the fey, blonde haired drummer almost fell into his arms.

"You bastard. You contemptible bastard." Steve hissed the words, his venom far stronger than any shout could have been.

Bodie fastened his grip on the man's upper arms, making Steve notice him for the first time. The anger faded almost immediately, to be replaced by such a look of hopelessness that Bodie felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the man.

"Hey, hey, sunshine." Bodie shook him gently to get his attention. He saw the sad eyes fill with tears and instinctively knew there was only one thing to do. Pulling the man closer to him, throwing a comradely arm over his shoulders, he began to lead him from the hospital. "You, my sweet, look in need of a good stiff drink."

 

************************************

 

Doyle sighed, skimming through the last few pages of accounts and notes. Rhiannon had circled several entries, scrawled notes about addresses. Some addresses he recognised, abandoned warehouses, derelict yards. But the accounts did not tally with that. That would be something for Cowley to look into; Doyle had other things on which to concentrate. 

He glanced at his watch; forty-five minutes until his infomal appointment. Best start making a move. 

Betty looked up as he entered the room, the file under his arm. "Found anything?"

"It looks like some strange things going on in the accounts, going by her notes, but I can't make head nor tail of them; not yet," she replied. "It's somehow more a case of what isn't said than what is."

"Right up the old man's street, then."

She gave him a disproving look which he countered which a chip toothed grin. He handed her another list, this one in his own handwriting. "This is a list of former cult members I've been able to track down names and addesses for. If Bodie's back before me, tell him to make a start and I'll catch up with him later."

Betty nodded, taking the papers from him. "Do you think you have enough for your meeting?"

He grinned again. "No problems. Piece of cake."

********************

 

It was barely one minute past twelve when Bodie ushered the still shell-shocked Steve into the just-opened pub. Depositing him in a corner stall, far from prying eyes and wagging ears, Bodie made straight for the bar, returning quickly with two large brandies. He pushed one into Steve's unresisting hand.

"Take a good sip of that, kid, and tell your Uncle Bodie all about it."

Bodie didn't think Steve needed to be told, but just the sound of a comforting voice seemed to stem the wave of emotions flooding from the trembling young man. He took a long drink of brandy, coughing as the burning fluid hit his throat.

"You found Rhia yet?" The hunger in the grey eyes was pathetic, and Bodie wished there was some good news he could tell him.

Instead he shook his head briefly. "No, mate. Nothing." The regret was obvious in his voice, and seemed to strike a chord with the drummer.

"And you thought that bastard Gary would help you, didn't you?"

Bodie saw the anger flash in the grey eyes. "At first." He took a sip of his own brandy. "Then, I just thought I'd kick the shit out of him till he told me the truth."

Steve gave a short laugh, genuine humour lightening his features, albeit for a split second. "You look like you could as well, handsome. Although I'd rather you tried the soft and gentle approach with me."

Bodie returned the smile, acknowledging the playful but harmless teasing. "We think it might be something to do with that cult Rhiannon and Gary were involved in last year." Cowley may have his hide for it, but Cowley wasn't here. Steve deserved the truth; Bodie knew instinctively that if anyone truly cared for Rhiannon, it was this fey drummer.

He took another sip of his brandy, the drink not choking him this time. His eyes widened at the thought Bodie presented to him. "Ah, you might have something there as well, butty," he acknowledged.

"Well, that's one angle. Or kidnap the daughter of an Earl. Or someone Gary owes money has taken her to make him pay up." Bodie rattled through the possibilities, even though he had more or less dismissed them himself. Gary's performance alone had convinced him that he didn't care about Rhia enough for anyone to grab her to get back at him. Steve's adamant shake of his head seemed to confirm his own doubts. "What can you tell me?"

"Tell you everything I can, I will," Steve vowed solemnly. "Anything. And not just ‘cus you're blue-eyed and beautiful." He dismissed the compliment as though it were no compliment at all. He simply wanted Bodie to know it wasn't his looks that was making him so open. "Rhia's a darling, so she is. A real sweetheart. Deserves better."

Bodie raised his glass in agreement. "Can't disagree there, mate."

"No-one who knows Gary at all would think taking Rhia would make him do anything," Steve's bitterness was apparent. "Not what you'd call a normal relationship, they've got. Got worse recently." The sadness in his face told its own story. "But it's none of that. Gary's sold her out, see," Steve began, eager now to tell everything he could, anything to help find his friend. "I didn't know till this morning."

"Sold her out how?"

"Told you before - she's the daughter of an Earl, isn't she?" Steve spoke as though explaining it to someone rather slow on the uptake. Bodie nodded. "And no-one really knows that. She don't tell anyone. And I mean anyone. Wants people to like her for who she is, not what she is or what they can get from her. Now I dunno how she kept that from Gary, but she did. And that useless shit's got expensive habits. Now," he leaned forward conspiratorially. "That cult seemed to get Gary clean. T’was the only reason Rhia went along with it. They've not been a proper couple now for a year at least. More like nurse and patient. She won't leave him, see. Scared he'll do something daft and it'll be all her fault. And he plays on it. Dead easy to send Rhia on a guilt trip."

Bodie nodded his understanding, his loathing for the guitarist growing with each word.

"'Cept Gary doesn't know she's a Lady, or that she's got her own fortune. Off her dead grandmother. Died when she were a kid, see, and it all went to Rhia." Another sip of brandy. "Well, didn't sit too well with Gary when he found out his girlfriend could have bought half of Columbia's finest for him every day of the week without even noticing it. Biggest argument I've seen them have." Steve's eyes clouded with the memory, the images playing through his mind again. "Thought he was going to kill her. Was going to kill him myself if he laid a finger on her, but he never did. Just walked away."

"Who did he tell?"

Steve shook his head sadly. "He wouldn't tell me. Just said they'd know what to do about it. That it'd see him alright for as long as he wanted." He shrugged. "Turns out it didn't give him long to enjoy it, did it?"

So he sold the information to the highest bidder, Bodie thought, his suspicions building. "When did he find out?"

" 'Bout three, maybe four months ago. Couple of months after she dragged him out of that cult you're talking about. She said it was swapping one addiction for another. And for all how she waits on Gary hand and foot, she's not a pushover, our Rhia. No-one tells her what to think." Steve smiled softly, almost unconsciously, when talking about Rhia; Bodie wondered what kind of woman would tolerate such a waste of space as Gary Daniels while still managing to be the spitfire Steve described. "They'd spent about six months wrapped up with them nutters by then. Spent most of their time at some big house up round Covent Garden way. Were supposed to be there for another of them weekend retreat bullshit, but she dragged him out of it by the scruff of his neck. Told some uptight bitch to go fuck herself, and drove back."

Uptight bitch? Battleaxe, Doyle had said. Too convenient to be coincidence. "Do you know the name of the uptight bitch?"

Bodie was careful, but Steve was no fool. He caught the urgency in Bodie's voice. He put his glass down on the table carefully, his eyes wide. "You do think it's them, don't you?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's someone who thinks an Earl's daughter is worth a lot of money. Only question is, why the cult?" He frowned. "Did she say anything to you about them? Anything that might make you think they'd take her?"

Steve took a deep breath, his eyes focusing over Bodie's shoulder as though sifting through memories. "She said they were dirty, on the fiddle somehow, but nothing specific. She said all they were interested in was getting money out of people, or getting them so hooked on them that they'd do anything."

"Hooked how?"

Steve's lips tightened. "Well, I know Gary shagged his way through a lot of the girls there. One in particular, very popular with new recruits she is. Very pretty. If you like that sort of thing," he added with a sniff. "Wouldn't surprise me if they get people on the game. What was it they used to call it? Flirty fishing?" Steve's mouth twisted as if the words themselves tasted foul. "Anything for money, that's what she said. Course, she wouldn't have told them about her money, or who her Dad is."

Steve's voice trailed away as he stared at the man sat opposite him. He could almost hear the thoughts spinning through the dark haired head, firing, making connections. Not just a pretty face, this one.

"Do you think they're going to hurt her?" His voice was a worried whisper now.

Bodie met the grey eyes without hesitation. He wanted to be able to lie, to say something to make this gentle man feel better. But he knew that lies wouldn't help in the long run. Steve may seem like a weakling, but you didn't get to be his age, with his sexual leanings, without learning more toughness than most macho posturing blokes could only pretend. Steve wasn't anywhere near as weak as he seemed.

"Honestly? I don't know, mate. I don't know."

"Grey." The word shot out of Steve's mouth as though forced against his will. "The name. She was called Miss Grey." Bodie realised the sudden explosion of the name was because of how quickly it had returned to Steve's memory. "I remembered ‘cus my old music teacher was called Grey as well," Steve added by way of explanation.

If the drummer had been a bird, Bodie would have kissed him. Instead, he pushed his barely touched brandy across the table towards him. "That's brilliant, mate." Bodie's eyes shone. He had so much more information in these few minutes than they'd managed to get in the last twelve hours. He stood up to leave, but Steve's hand moved quicker than he would have expected and caught his wrist.

"You'll tell me, when you find her. Won't you?" the grey eyes pleaded silently. Bodie gave his best smile, placing a reassuring pat on the slender hand.

"Count on it, mate."

"And if I hear anything else, I'll let you know." There was an unspoken promise in the drummer's voice.

Bodie nodded his thanks, and Steve released him, allowing him to shoot out of the pub like a greyhound. He sighed into his brandy. "So gorgeous," he muttered to himself.

 

*********************************

 

As Doyle walked along the street towards the large Georgian fronted house, he seamlessly took on the stance and demeanour of the down and out character he had presented the previous day. The self inflicted hangover also helped with the illusion. “Bodie’s fault,” he thought to himself and smiled a little. He walked up the steps and hesitated by the open door. "Hello?" he called, looking inside. Hope appeared from a side door, her arms outstretched in welcome, a huge smile on her pretty face.

“Oh I’m so glad you came back” she said, with apparently genuine delight. “Please come in.” She ushered him into a large room that had been furnished with a bewildering choice of different arm chairs, sofas and huge squashy bean bags, obviously intended for group meetings. 

“Sit down here” she said. ‘”I’ll get us some tea.”

She scampered off, leaving him with a chance to look around the room. It was quite pleasant, sunshine streaming through the windows, plants and vases of flowers scattered about, and on every available space on the wall, an inspirational verse or phrase. He walked around the room, reading out the messages from the walls. 

_‘Talking is always the first step.’_

_‘Forget about all the reasons why something may not work. You only need to find one good reason why it will.’_

_‘Seek the wisdom of the ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child."_

_‘Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny’._

Suddenly, Hope was back with a tea tray which she placed on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room. She came up and held his hand, eyes shining. “Don’t they say such beautiful things?” she asked him.

“Yes, beautiful,” said Doyle, smiling warmly into her open, trusting face.

“Come and sit with me, talk with me,” she said, leading him over and sitting him down on a chair, placing herself on a huge bean bag next to him. It was no hardship to allow the pretty girl to lead him by the hand. She poured the tea and handed him a cup. “Sugar?” she asked.

“Er, no, thank you,” said Doyle, wondering where this was going next. He sipped his tea. 

Hope gave him a look of almost childish concern, all large eyes and innocent pout on her full lips. “Do you realise how important you are?” she asked.

He looked away from her, hiding his embarrassment at her question, although knowing his reaction was in character. "Oh I'm no-one really," he murmured. 

She reached across and took his hand in hers, raising it to her cheek. "Don't say that," she said, her face serious. "Don't ever say that." She stroked his hand against her cheek. "Everyone here is here because they feel the truth within them," she continued, a faraway look in her eyes. "There are people – not people," she corrected herself with a shake of her head and a frown. "Not people – creatures – who try to undermine us." Her voice was stronger, and he saw the fanatical gleam in her eyes. Suddenly, she seemed to return to her original sunny disposition. “Drink your tea. We need to look after you!” He readily obliged, grateful she had released his hand.

"We are drawn to the light, you see," she continued as he drank. "But sometimes people don't understand. They get dragged back into the darkness. Or they are so consumed with darkness that they try to destroy the light." Her sing-song voice was mildly irritating, but he could see it could become hypnotic, if the circumstances – and the listener – were right. 

At that moment, Miss Grey entered the room. “We are pleased you came back to see us, Ray,” she said, a wry smile on her face.

Doyle went as if to get up, but his feet suddenly felt as if they had gone to sleep. He wondered for a minute if his hangover was worse than he thought, then his reason kicked in. Oh God, the tea. He staggered to his feet but as he did so his knees gave way and he crashed down, unconscious, head first through the glass coffee table. 

Hope watched with only mild interest. She rolled the still form onto one side, noticing with the same strange detachment as the blood trickled from a cut above one eye. She reached out to dip her finger in the slowly flowing blood, bringing it closer to her face and watching with almost hypnotic fascination as it beaded into a drip on her finger.

"Was that what you wanted?" Hope asked, in a dreamy, colourless voice, attention still fixed on Doyle's blood as it ran down her finger.

Miss Grey approached and stroked her hair gently. "Yes, child. You did very well."

The large blue eyes lifted to gaze at the older woman. "And you will make sure the darkness is all gone, won't you? You will look after Ray?”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Grey, a far from charitable look in her cold eyes. “He will receive the best care I can give.” The gleam in her eyes was almost hungry.

 

***************************

Cowley took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as Betty came back in the room with another heap of files.

“Here you are, sir. The financial records of the Children of the Way. Deeds and details of properties registered in the name of the Children of the Way and one Dr. John Sharpe."

“Thank you, Betty. Please get me a computer read out of all the outgoings from their Swiss bank account."

“There is a reason why people choose Swiss bank accounts, sir.”

“Yes I realise that, but I’m sure you can pull a few strings now, can’t you?” Cowley gave her the smile that she never could refuse, and she went to see what she could find. "Oh and Betty," the soft wheedle in the voice brought a smile to her lips. "A cup of tea with a wee dram in it wouldn't go amiss, if you'd be so kind."

She smiled indulgently and nodded. "Of course, sir."

********************

Doyle’s senses returned to him sluggishly, unwilling. They probably had good reason, he thought ruefully. Undercover barely twenty-four hours and rumbled already. Macklin would have his hide for it. 

If Macklin got the chance.

He hid his growing awareness to allow himself to gauge the situation. He was bound on what felt like a hard backed wooden chair, his wrists tied together behind the chair back and rope around his chest, binding him to the chair. He felt more binding below his knees and around his ankles. Trussed like a Christmas turkey. 

Before he could begin to stir, he felt cool hands - woman’s hands - tilt his head upwards. Warily, he opened his eyes to find the prim and proper Miss Grey smiling down at him. He suppressed a groan at the sight of his concealed gun, penknife and blade fanned in her perfectly manicured hands. A distinctly unholy smile completely at odds with her vicar’s wife façade spread across her face. She hid the weapons in the pocket of her tailored jacket and moved closer to him. Long nails scraped over his cheek, not harsh, almost lovingly. Almost a tender caress, laden with promise. But nothing to do with his pleasure, he could see that in the woman’s cold eyes.

“You lied to us, Mr. Doyle,” she said softly, tapping his cheek lightly as though admonishing a child. 

“When did I do that?” he asked, trying to buy time.

The gentle tap turned into a cracking slap, hard across his face. “Don’t play games, Mr. Doyle. At least, don’t play your own games.” A cruel smile twisted her carefully painted face. “You’ll be playing my games as long as you’re here.”

She moved away from him, and he twisted his head to take in his surroundings. A bare bulb hung over his head, naked light bright and painful. Everything outside the halo of light it provided was hidden in darkness, but he got the impression of a largish room; no windows so possibly underground. The tiled floor was a nice touch, he thought. Made it easier to sluice away the blood. He had no indication of how long he had been out, and his drug addled mind could not calculate how much time had passed.

“Are you familiar with the works of Ian Fleming?” The question came out of the shadows. He twisted his head to the sound of the voice. Grey entered the pool of light, her hands primly held together in front of her. “One of his books that has yet to be filmed - I’m not sure if it ever will be, to be honest,” she continued, as though discussing the weather. “Far too violent. But the villain did get one thing right - it’s the simple things that give the greatest pain.”

Before he realised what was happening, a thin rope dropped over his head, closing with alarming rapidity over his throat. He felt it tighten, felt the blood pumping harder in his head, a deafening roaring sound in his ears. Sparkles danced in front of his eyes, his throat closing, feeling darkness only another twist of the rope away.

Then it was released, the air drawn deep and painfully back into his lungs as he coughed and retched.

“Now, I’ve no intention of indulging in the - frankly - rather homoerotic torture scene Mr. Fleming described so admirably,” Miss Grey’s voice slid through his returning senses, even over the drumming sound of his heart that still resonated in his ears. “But I’m sure we can come up with things equally inventive.”

He didn’t see the signal she gave to Vincent, standing behind him with the garrote. His sight still swam with stars, his breath still raw in his throat. He only felt the large hand grab his hair, pulling his head back with sufficient force to almost pull the hair from the roots. The action put greater restriction on his breathing, adding the torturous pull of a spine being bent in a direction it was never designed to be bent.

He felt the cold finger nail drag down his exposed throat, from under his chin to just under the collar of his t-shirt. “Now, will you tell me why you are here, Mr. Doyle? Hmmm?”

“How about just fuck off?” Doyle rasped. Vincent wrapped a muscular forearm around Doyle’s throat, never relinquishing the grip in his hair.

“You want I should just rip the mouthy git’s head right off, ma’am?” he asked, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth in his rage.

Doyle’s green eyes couldn’t hide his pain, but they showed far more defiance than Vincent liked. He altered his grip on the curly brown hair and yanked it back harder, enjoying the grimace that contorted Doyle’s face.

Grey reached out a restraining hand to gently pat the arm Vincent held across Doyle’s throat.

“Now, now, Mr. Vincent,” she admonished gently. “Your loyalty is comforting, but we do need Mr. Doyle in one piece for a little while longer. Although,” the tight lips pursed in thought. “Actually maybe we don’t need him in one piece, but we do need him alive. And talking.”

Vincent released him with a shove, and Doyle breathed deeply again, even though he knew it was not a reprieve. It was just the beginning. Grey disappeared again into the darkness, leaving Doyle straining his senses for some kind of indication, any kind of hint, of what to expect. A soft susurration came from out of the darkness, rhythmical, almost relaxing. As the footsteps came into the light, however, the source of the noise became apparent. Miss Grey held a short flail in her right hand, gently laying the lengths of thin leather straps over her left hand, running her fingers through them, causing the soft shushing sound. The smile on her face was almost angelic. Unable to tear his eyes away from the flail, Doyle was surprised when Vincent’s hand reached around to tear open his shirt and t-shirt, exposing his chest. Grey’s eyes travelled down his body, her gaze no less terrible than the thought of the lash he knew he would soon feel on his bare skin.

He could not stop himself flinching as the leather thongs gently caressed his chest in a cruel mockery of seduction. He allowed his disgust to show on his face.

“Sorry, love, but you’re not my type,” he said with a defiant curl of his lip. “Well past your sell by date, aren’t you?”

The flail landing heavily against his skin was better than letting her whip him with her eyes. He knew that. So he did everything he could to keep her laying on with the whip, goading her, mocking her - anything than allow her to take this and turn it into some kind of parody of foreplay. 

After a while - he had no idea how long, although he guessed it was probably only minutes, only the pain had made it feel like hours - she regained her control. He saw it in her icy eyes. He’d made her lose her temper, and she didn’t like that. Didn’t like that he had taken away her self-control. That made him the one calling the shots, didn’t it? And she would never forgive him for that.

Striding back into the darkness she returned quickly with a jug of liquid. Before Doyle could think what it might be, she threw it over his raw and bleeding chest. Despite his best endeavors, he couldn’t stop the cry of pain as the vinegar rinsed away the blood, turning the throbbing welts into burning slivers of glass that tore into his flesh anew.

She looked down at him, breathing heavily. “We shall leave you for now, Mr. Doyle. Nothing personal, you understand. But someone else requires my attention. Someone probably less stubborn than yourself.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, Vincent following behind her like a pet mastiff. An awful feeling of coldness crept through Doyle’s stomach. Someone else. Oh God. 

His head fell onto his chest, suddenly not caring about the stinging cuts or the throbbing bruises. He’d tormented the woman, drawn her anger to fever pitch - and now she was going to unleash it on someone else. And with a sickening revulsion, Doyle realised who that was going to be.

*****************************

 

Bodie sat behind the wheel of his Capri tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. Doyle was late. It wasn't like the golli to keep him waiting this long; Doyle knew better. When the R/T beeped, just a few minutes after Bodie had decided he was going to bend Doyle's ear good and proper about keeping him waiting, he smiled with relief. 

"3-7. You took your time, Doyle."

"3-7. This is Alpha One"

The chill uncertainty settled in Bodie's gut again. He frowned. "Has Doyle checked in with you yet, sir?"

"No, 3-7." Cowley's reply was abrupt, doing nothing to quell the disquiet growing in Bodie. "Get back to base immediately. Alpha One out."

It was wrong. The hairs on the back of Bodie's neck prickled with unease. Something was wrong. Nothing was as it seemed.

"3-7 to 4-5" said Bodie, re-connecting the R/T. "'Come in 4-5."

Nothing. No response. He couldn't ignore his instincts any longer. They'd kept him alive all these years; kept Doyle alive as well. And now they were screaming at him.

Bodie threw the R/T onto the passenger seat and the Capri tore off down the road.

 

*******************

Doyle felt the dried blood crusting his chest, the itching sensation alone enough to drive a man insane. Movements caused some of the deeper cuts to open again, oozing blood to add to the trickling, tickling torment.

He deserved it. Every pain, every discomfort, every agony.

It had been the screams. His fertile imagination had worked out dozens of scenarios to explain all the noises he had heard coming from the room that seemed so close to his own. Screams of anger, throat ripping, awful screams of furious anger that weakened into sobs. Furious roars against the weakness ebbing away again until the only sound was the sharp thwack of leather on skin.

Once the screams stopped and the sobs subsided, the sounds of the beating had ended. He prayed she was unconscious, that something other than death had given her some surcease from pain. For himself, he could only try and relax, try and withdraw into deep meditation techniques in order to take himself away from his discomfort. If only he could forget the sound of those screams.....

 

***********************

Bodie strode into Cowley's office. Time to think had not lessened his concern, but it had allowed him to control it. He knew Cowley had no time for histrionics.

"Has Doyle checked in yet, sir?' he demanded with a calmness he did not feel.

"No, he still hasn't been in touch," Cowley replied, noting the muscle twitching in Bodie's jaw. 3-7 was a good man, one of the finest. But you had to know him well to know when he was on edge, as he was now.

"The Haven – two miles outside Taunton, Bodie." Cowley knew he had to harness Bodie's restlessness, concentrate it, else he was liable to come up with his own plans. "There's a former cult member there, a Christopher Devine. Go easy on him, Bodie." There was a definite warning in Cowley's eyes. "He's agreed to speak to us, but he's recovering from a nervous breakdown – brought on by the cult no doubt." Sympathy softened his expression briefly, but the features hardened again quickly. "And his father has contacts in the Cabinet, so I won't be wanting any accusations of brutality, do I make myself clear, laddie?"

"As crystal, sir." Bodie bore the sharp warning with parade ground perfection.

Cowley sighed, knowing that control would soon be tested to the limit. "We've been looking into this cult's practices, Bodie," he said. He removed his glasses to rub his eyes. There was a tiredness in his voice that Bodie found disconcerting. "The accounts don't add up for one thing. For another, although they do have regular, normal people in their ranks, they have a high proportion of people with connections. Power and money, Bodie." He replaced his glasses with a sigh.

"Any contact from the kidnappers, sir?"

"Aye." He gestured to the tape machine perched on the corner of his desk. Interpreting the signal, Bodie set the machine running.

The message was brief and to the point, delivered in a brisk, cold fashion by a man obviously disguising his voice. 

"A reminder – do not involve the police. Any interference will be considered a breach in our terms. And breach in terms, or failure to meet our demands, will result in dire consequences for the Lady Moncrieffe. She will be returned. One piece at a time. Please do not underestimate us. We will be in touch with further instructions."

"Nice," said Bodie, sarcasm in his voice.

"They haven't given details of the drop, so we still have time," said Cowley. "Betty has uncovered some information about the Children of the Way and their activities. Supplying funds to Uganda. We are trying to work out what these funds are used for, but I suspect it will be arms. Arms and drugs to fund them."

"Do we have anything reliably linking the cult to the kidnapping?" Bodie asked, his voice clipped. 

Cowley hesitated, his frustration and anger apparent. "Nothing," he snapped. He loosened his tie. "Ach, it's thin, Bodie. Too damn thin."

"That's what Doyle said."

The sharp grey eyes bored into him. "Doyle was right," he said. "But you tell me, Bodie. What are your instincts telling you?"

Bodie's expression gave nothing away. "It's them, sir," he said finally, conviction in his quiet voice.

Cowley nodded. "Aye. But we have to move carefully. There's more at stake here than just the Lady Moncrieffe." He gave a sigh, dismissing the darker thoughts as he started to sift through the papers on his desk once more. "Off to Taunton, Bodie. See if we can find a wedge at least."

***********************

Vincent rapped on the door. A voice responded almost immediately, allowing him entrance. He closed the door behind him silently.

"What is it, Mr. Vincent?" Grey's carefully modulated voice greeted him.

"There's a complication, ma'am."

She turned in her chair, giving the tall man her full consideration. He stood ramrod straight, his face a carefully contained mask.

"Do tell, Mr. Vincent." He was a model of military efficiency, from his precision cut dark blond hair to the razor lines of his black trousers and the mirror shine on his black leather shoes. Mr. Vincent was reliability personified, the best money could buy. 

"The boyfriend, ma'am," he said, his voice relating the facts carefully and precisely. 

Grey felt the smile drop from her face. "What about him?" Her voice hardened.

"He screwed up, ma'am. Overdosed. He was found by someone – we're assuming another member of the band searching for the lady – admitted to hospital. Not expected to survive." There was no inflection in his voice, he related the bare facts without preamble.

Grey sat completely still, feeling the anger coiling up inside her, muscles tightening, heartbeat loud in her ears. Vincent remained, calmly awaiting orders. 

Grey looked down at her open palm in apparent calm, seeing the half moon welts from where her nails had dug into her hands in her anger.

"That is unfortunate." No trace of her fury was in the voice.

"Ma'am?"

"No matter." Grey's cold smile returned to her face. "I think it's time we returned to our guests, don't you?"

************************

Doyle woke immediately at the sound of a key in the lock, his senses alert. By the time Grey approached him, entering the circle of light that still surrounded him, his green eyes showed no fatigue, meeting her appraising gaze with a furious hatred.

"Like beating up people who can't fight back, do you?" he taunted.

Miss Grey did not move. She tutted lightly, shaking her head. "Now, now, Mr. Doyle. Haven't you learned by now that I know the best way to make you suffer is to vent the frustration you have caused on someone else?"

Doyle's glare did not waver. "Doesn't stop you being a coward, does it?"

A frown creased her features. "Am I wrong? Did you enjoy hearing her screams?" She approached him carefully, as though studying a creature in a zoo. "I can't be so wrong in my estimation of you, surely. I've an uncanny ability in these things."

"Could have been a recording for all I know." Doyle tried to keep his tone flippant, determined to hide his certainty that it had been true.

A shark-like smile flitted across Miss Grey's lips. "Do you have any concept of who is being held in the room next door?" she enquired in a voice like poisoned honey.

Her cold eyes watched him like a hawk. Any flinch, any hesitation, any sign of forced body language would betray him, he knew. He had also realised, in his long period alone, that it was best not to let them know they were linked, however tenuously, to the kidnap of Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe.

"Doesn't matter who it is," he replied, carefully maintaining his anger. "I don't care what they've done, they don't deserve that."

She seemed to consider him carefully, before flashing that cold smile again. "Then if you are not here for the Lady Moncrieffe, perhaps you would tell me why you are here?"

Doyle groaned. "Oh change the fucking record, will ya?"

He knew before the hulking figure appeared that one of her goons was in the room. Jackson walked into the light with an evil grin on his fat features.

"Remember me, Mr. Doyle?"

Doyle flicked an insolent gaze up and down the massive frame. Although some of the muscle had sagged, there was still enough there to cause a lot of damage. "Can't say you seem particularly memorable," he replied.

Jackson backhanded him with enough force for Doyle to see stars. "Put me away, you did."

Doyle drew his mouth tight before spitting blood across the room. "Must 'ave deserved it then, mustn't you?"

Jackson raised his fist to strike him again, but Grey placed her delicate hand on his massive forearm, preventing the blow from landing. "Now, now, Mr. Jackson. We must not let personal vendettas cloud the issue."

Jackson stepped back, clearly not happy with being leashed, but obviously not willing to disobey the school mistress figure by his side.

"Now, Mr. Doyle," she said, resuming her modulated tones. "Why are you here?"

Doyle forced a laugh. "Why am I here?" he mocked. "Where would you like me to start?" He grasped at straws, praying that he could play the delicate balance between saying nothing and pretending to know all. "You lot have got so many dodgy dealings going on, it's a wonder MI5 and MI6 aren't crawling around this place as well."

A controlled smile curled the perfectly painted lips. "If they were, Mr. Doyle, I assure you we would be aware of it."

"Would you," he shot back, trying to shatter that cold confidence. "Well, it doesn't matter why I'm here, love, cus where I go, CI5 follow. So you'd better batten down the hatches, cus you're in for a rough ride."

A puzzled look crossed her face. "So you truly do not know who we hold next door?" she said again, more in wonder than an actual question.

"No, I don't. But I do know you're not going to get away with it any longer." Doyle put all his conviction into his words. Bodie would find him. He knew. Whether he'd still be alive by the time his partner got here was a different question, but he knew as sure as he knew the sun rose in the mornings, that Bodie would find him. And God – if that was the right side – help the ones responsible for his death once Bodie had tracked them down. The knowledge made him smile.

"See, I know a bloke. Best bloke in the world. Evil son of a bitch, but he's my mate. And he'd follow you through the gates of hell itself to kick seven colours of shit out of you for hurting me." Doyle's confidence unnerved Miss Grey – he could see it; see the flicker of doubt suddenly cloud those icy brown eyes.

Jackson's fist landed hard in his unguarded belly, taking his breath away. But it didn't matter now. He'd seen the fear in her eyes. And she knew he'd seen it.

When he raised his head to meet her gaze once more, her perfect mask was in place again. "Then we should certainly make it worth his while," she said softly. He watched as she walked across the room, reaching into the shadows and returning with the flail. She stood in front of him, a soft smile on her face as she ran the leather thongs through her hand gently. He pulled back when she reached to trace the bone handle across one cheek, slowly dragging it across his face until finishing on the uneven line of his right cheek. Her breathing had slowed, he noticed; her eyes dark with an unholy passion that turned Doyle's stomach.

He was not expecting the garrote as it dropped around his throat again, tightening before he could gasp his surprise. She stared down at him, watching his face purple, the tendons in his neck standing out, the tears springing unbidden to his green eyes. Her breath caught in her own throat as she listened to his rasping gasps for air. Jackson finally released the garrote before unconsciousness could claim him, but he barely had chance to draw breath before the flail laid into his chest again, dragging cold air into his burning throat.

*******************

"This doesn't change our plans, Miss Grey." She relished the sound of his dark voice, the telephone bringing it straight into her ears in a way that was almost sensual in its intimacy.

"But he was meant to leave evidence of her drug abuse," she said, her eyes closed as she heard the sound of him breathing, so close and yet so far away.

"Guilt by association, my dear." She felt warmth spread through her at his endearment. "It won't be difficult to convince people that she was as bad as her paramour."

"No, sir," she breathed, her voice catching slightly.

"Just make sure, when the money is received, and she is returned, that she has enough heroin in her system to convince anyone that, even if she survives it, whatever she thinks happened was nothing more than a drug induced fantasy."

"Yes, sir."

"In fact, I don't know why you haven't begun her treatments already." There was mild admonishment in his voice, but he knew the reason well enough. Drugging her would mean she wouldn't feel what was being done to her. And Grey wanted her to feel it, every single thing.

"It will be dealt with," she promised. "Mr. Jackson's previous record will serve its purpose."

"Ensure it does." The telephone went dead. 

Grey held onto the receiver for a while longer, pretending in her twisted mind that the telephone line still connected her to her self-acknowledged master.

*******************

Two and a half hours of motorway driving did little to vent Bodie's frustration. Doyle had not checked in. Bodie knew something was wrong; even the promise to send Murphy over to Doyle's place to check it out did nothing to mollify him.

He pulled into the driveway, checking the address Betty had given him once more against the map, before following the sweeping gravel drive to the red brick Victorian mansion that appeared out of the tree lined avenue. He parked the Capri, not bothering to lock it, and approached the large panelled door.

He was expected, that was obvious, the door being answered shortly after he rang the bell. Bodie gave his most charming smile as he flashed his ID at the nurse who opened the door. He quickly found himself escorted to an office where he was welcomed by the doctor in charge, who introduced himself as Dr. Taylor. The doctor gestured for Bodie to follow him through the corridors, walking slowly.

"I have been contacted by your superior, Mr. Cowley, who has explained that you would like to speak to Christopher Devine." The doctor's manner was polite but firm. "I understand this is very important, but I would ask you to comply with a number of requests."

"Yes, of course," Bodie agreed readily. "What do I need to know?"

Taylor regarded Bodie carefully, wondering if this serious, dangerous man could deal with his emotionally fragile patient. "Mr. Devine has had a particularly destructive breakdown," he began. "He may find direct questioning very difficult to handle, plus he is not comfortable with one-to-one confrontations. Please, under no circumstances must you lose your temper or raise your voice. Just imagine you are handling a very fine piece of antique china that may break at any minute. If you have any problems, please raise the alarm immediately and we will step in."

"I understand," said Bodie, trying for a reassuring smile. 

The doctor returned the smile. "Good. You will find Mr. Devine in the main lounge. We have spoken to him about this and he is expecting you." They had stopped outside a large sitting room. The doctor indicated with a look the high back chair looking out over the garden.

"Thank you, doctor." Bodie shook his hand and watched the man walk away, back in the direction they had come.

Bodie hesitated, taking in the environment. Over the years, finance to the institution may have slowed to a trickle, but it still offered the best care anywhere in the country. The main lounge was an imposing room with high ceilings and rows of big French doors that opened out onto quiet, extensive gardens. No matter the weather, patients were encouraged to use the garden, the fresh air, the tranquility, in the belief that a man's soul could be healed by communion with nature. Bodie decided to use this to his advantage, to avoid eye to eye contact and direct questioning, and instead opt for a stroll around the grounds. 

As he entered the room, he picked out the man who must be Christopher Devine, sitting in a chair overlooking the garden, watching the warm evening glow. He was younger than Bodie expected; for some reason, he had thought nervous breakdowns were something that happened to older people. But this man was barely mid twenties. Gaunt and thin, he had dark hair that looked in need of a cut, and a beard that artificially aged him. He was wearing a track suit with a bath robe over the top. Bodie approached him with some trepidation, wondering what to expect after Dr. Taylor's warning.

"Mr. Devine?" Bodie smiled, holding out a hand in greeting. 

The man looked up and returned the smile. Bodie saw the tiredness in the prematurely aged face. They shook hands. "Chris, please."

"Bodie. CI5. Good to meet you, Chris. Thank you for agreeing to see me." 

He nodded, swallowing with difficulty. "I understand it is very important. I'm happy to help if I can."

"I just wondered if you'd appreciate a walk around the grounds while we talk?" suggested Bodie, tentatively. The man seemed fragile, delicate. He seemed to have steeled himself for this discussion, but Bodie was not convinced he was ready to face his demons yet.

Chris stood, flashing a stronger smile, as though reading Bodie's thoughts. "Yes, thank you. That would be great."

The two men stepped through one of the large French doors into the garden. The evening air was warm, scented with jasmine and honeysuckle. Tranquillity surrounded them, in the silence and the hazy summer sun. 

Bodie took a deep breath, unwilling to bring horror into this haven. "Did the doctor explain why I need to talk to you?" he asked gently easing the subject into conversation.

"Yes, they told me it was about the Children of The Way." Chris thrust his hands into the pockets of the robe and looked down at the grass. He did not falter in his steps, but Bodie sensed a tension in the wiry figure. "What has happened?"

"We are investigating a kidnapping which may or not be connected with them," said Bodie, carefully watching the man for any signs of stress. He kept his voice gentle, cultured. 

"Yes, that sounds like their style," said Chris. He paused with a heavy sigh, still staring at the ground. 

"I understand this is difficult for you," said Bodie in the same comforting, silken voice. "The last thing I want to do is bring up bad memories for you." He put as much reassurance into his modulated tones as possible, his attention not wavering from the fragile man before him. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't necessary," he said softly.

The stick thin shoulders shrugged. Chris took a deep breath, as though reaching a decision. "No, it's okay." He raised tired eyes to meet Bodie's concerned look. "What do you want to know?"

"Are you able to tell me what they did to you?" Bodie asked gently. 

The old eyes gazed into the distance. "I couldn't have done if you had asked me three months ago," he began, a quaver in his voice. "Now." - again, the shrug, as though throwing something off - "Well I can tell you they brainwashed me into following their way of life, so much so that I did anything they asked of me, even if deep down I knew it was wrong." The sunken brown eyes focused on Bodie. "They got me hooked on cocaine. It was all done very cleverly, to manipulate me. You could call some of the things they did to me torture." His mouth twisted at the memory. "I know that now." He paused and fixed Bodie with a look that was surprisingly sharp. "They are violent and deadly and if you can stop them, I'll do anything I can to help." Tiredness swept over his face, and Bodie knew this was a huge effort for him. He spied a bench overlooking the gardens and led him there to sit down.

"Are you okay?" he asked solicitously.

Chris nodded firmly. Bodie scanned his face to be sure, seeing only determination beneath the tiredness.

"Can you tell me how they first got you hooked?" Bodie asked carefully.

"I went to a meeting, there was this girl called Hope." Chris related the story as though it happened to someone else. Bodie realised the disassociation was necessary for the young man to keep control. "She was beautiful," he continued, only a hint of emotion leaking through. "She made me feel special, told me that they would help me. That the world was a dangerous and lonely place, and they could look after me. I became totally fixated with her and thought we were going through the whole experience together." Chris stopped abruptly and Bodie realised he had been allowing the feelings too close again. Bodie allowed him time to control himself, stifling his impatience. Chris swallowed and faced Bodie for the first time since he'd started the story. "She was a plant, Mr. Bodie. An evil bitch who gets some kind of kick out of bringing new lambs to the slaughter."

Bodie saw the need in the young man's old eyes; the need to be believed. "My partner was sent to infiltrate the cult. He said he had a meeting with a young blonde woman, very pretty." He watched Chris' reaction carefully, noting the widening of the eyes. "Is that Hope?"

Chris stifled a sob, his breath coming in short gasps. Bodie was about to run for help, worried he had pushed the young man's recovery back several months, but a surprisingly strong hand grabbed his wrist, restraining him.

"Hope is very good with people who are new," he began in a broken voice. "Before you know it, she's the love of your life; she's the only one you need. Then others move in. You don't notice it happening, but eventually, they become your family, your only friends." A shudder went through the thin frame. "Then they start telling you all the things they've done for you, and you start to do things for them. They don't even have to ask. You borrow money from family and friends, you lie and cheat and steal." His voice grew stronger as his emotions threatened to engulf him. Instead, he took a deep, drawing breath and held it, before releasing it slowly.

"It's alright, Mr. Bodie." His voice was a ragged whisper, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I'm not going to go psychotic on you."

Bodie watched him carefully. "I don't want to affect your recovery," he said slowly. "But my friend is in there, and we think they've kidnapped someone who used to be a member." He kept his voice calm, low, seeing the distress his news caused. "I need to know what to expect."

Chris kept his grip on Bodie's arm, as though drawing strength from his presence. "They plan everything, Mr. Bodie," he said softly. "You see, after a while, I didn't want to be there anymore. They wanted me to use my father's position at the Home Office, and I couldn’t do it. I wanted out, but before I could, they locked me away, pumped me full of drugs, and sent me out as a junkie who couldn't be believed." He gave a mirthless laugh. "You see, Dr. Sharpe said I'd been ejected from the group because of paranoid delusions. And Dr. Sharpe is a respected member of the psychiatric community."

Bodie considered the man sat beside him, wondering whether this was another facet of his breakdown, or just possibly the truth. "Are you saying you shouldn't be here?" he asked.

Chris' laugh became more genuine. "Oh no. I should definitely be here. That's the problem, you see. Enough people tell you you're mad, you start to believe them. Before you know it, you're raving." A tear escaped, rolling down the gaunt face, making the laugh a lie. "You don't know what's up or down anymore," he said softly. He took another gasping breath. "I'm sure I saw guns once. They locked me in a room, somewhere underground I think it was. That's the last thing I remember." He gave a shrug. "But I'm not even sure whether that's real or not," he finished weakly.

"If they had kidnapped someone, do you have an idea of what they would do to them?" Bodie asked, fearing the answer.

Chris looked down again, his already pale face turning grey. "There wouldn't be anything linking them to it. They'd have a fall guy in place, someone to take the blame. And the person they released wouldn't be the same as before. They'd be like me, just broken nutcases, no-one believes." He turned red-rimmed eyes to Bodie. "They are sadistic animals, Mr. Bodie; there's nothing they wouldn't do." His firm grip left Bodie's arm.

Bodie felt he should leave that particular line of questioning, at least for now. "I'm sorry," said Bodie. "May I ask you one more thing?"

"Of course." The voice had an edge of solidity about it now, giving Bodie more confidence.

"If they had kidnapped someone, do you know where they would take them?"

Chris frowned slightly, turning all the possibilities over in his mind. "All of their operations take place in a big house in Covent Garden. Do you know it?"

"Yes, but we are guessing they wouldn't hide a kidnap victim there and assume there is a second or even third address." Bodie could not hide the note of hope in his voice

Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't know of anywhere else. All I remember is tiled floors and no windows." 

Bodie tried not to show the disappointment he felt. "Thank you for help Chris, I know it was a very brave thing to do."

"I'm sorry I couldn't help more, Mr. Bodie," he said, genuine regret in his voice. He stood and Bodie could sense his relief that the ordeal was over. "I hope you find your kidnap victim, and your friend." He shook Bodie's hand and Bodie started to walk away.

"By the way," said Chris suddenly. Bodie turned back to him. "If you find the girl called Hope, don't be fooled by the way she looks or the way she behaves. Please make sure she gets what she deserves."

Bodie smiled, the promise in his midnight blue eyes reassuring the broken man in front of him. "I'll do my best," he said, then turned and walked away.

********************

She felt like some kind of wild animal, cornered, herded, as Jackson closed in on her. It was all delaying the inevitable, she knew, but there was still enough anger in her to refuse to give in without a fight.

The huge hand clamped around her wrist, causing a flare of pain as he twisted the broken skin left by the ropes. Hearing her cry brought a grin to his face, his tongue flicking across his lips, as though tasting her pain. He barely managed to dodge the knee aimed squarely at his groin. He pulled her against him roughly, grabbing her throat with his other hand as he twisted her wrist again. He brought her face close to his, waiting for the mouth to open with the next pain induced gasp, but she ground her teeth instead.

He tightened the grip slightly on her throat, almost lifting her from the ground. Her defiance fuelled his anger, which in turn made his desire grow. He would have her, screaming and begging and kicking every step of the way. He would not stop until he was satisfied.

She felt the cold tiled wall against her back as he pushed her against it. Breathing was difficult, black spots and whorls of colour dancing in front of her eyes. She was losing consciousness, the only thing keeping her upright the hand clamped firmly around her throat. She felt pressure against her, a body pressed close against her, replacing the choking hand pinning her to the wall. Her other wrist was taken in the same grip that held her one arm, raising them both above her head, freeing his hand to grab a breast in a painful grip as his hips ground against her, parting her weakened legs. Realisation broke through her numbed body and she began to fight again, ignoring the pain as bruised flesh made contact with his hard body.

It was a losing battle; it was probably pointless, and certainly only made him more determined, but that wasn't the point. The point was that if she stopped fighting, she would lose herself. Better to be taken than to be forced into giving. Better the humiliation of defeat than that of surrender.

Despite the sweat from fighting, despite the heat of the body pressed against hers, she still felt a coldness seep into her stomach as she felt him fumbling at the zip of his trousers. Instinct won over pride as a scream ripped from her throat. 

It felt like one long scream, even as the weight was wrenched from her and she fell to the floor. She didn't realise the screams continued as Vincent dragged Jackson out of the room, stopping only to draw breath into her lungs for another scream.

The sound brought a smile to Grey's painted lips, but it faded as the chastened Jackson was made to stand in front of her. She lashed out, slapping him hard, then again on the other cheek as she saw the flare of rebellion in his dull eyes. Finally subdued, she moved away from him to resume her seat.

"I have told you once, Jackson; you will have your opportunity with the girl when I say so and not before."

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

She flashed a look at the impassive figure of Vincent standing behind Jackson. "As it is, the fear of you is sufficient. For now. But rest assured, Jackson." Her voice fell again to a poisonous whisper. "Disobey me once more and you will find yourself lacking the necessary equipment to make good on your threat. Do you understand me?"

Eyes fixed firmly on the floor in front of him, Jackson mumbled again. "Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. Get out of my sight." He left the room quickly before she changed her mind. She watched him leave.

"Do you want me to take any other precautions, ma'am?" Vincent's voice brought her attention back to him. So solid. So reliable. She smiled to herself. The sooner that lumbering idiot Jackson served his purpose the better. He was a nuisance, but necessary; doubly so since they required someone to blame for the eventual death of a CI5 agent as well as the kidnap of the girl.

"It is of no consequence, Vincent. Lady Moncrieffe's virtue is of no concern, but I will be obeyed. Time, perhaps, to put both eggs in the same basket." Her lips pursed at the thought. Doubly damaging, perhaps, she thought. The naturally protective CI5 man and the woman whose sense of responsibility seemed to control her entire life. Yes. It would afford some intriguing opportunities.

*************************

Cowley flicked through the photographs Betty had provided, together with the brief biographies she had managed to obtain. Not for the first time, Cowley considered his secretary had almost mystical powers when it came to gathering information. He didn't remember whether he'd made a deal with the Devil when he'd managed to engage her services, but he was sure he got the best end of the bargain.

Miss Ellen Grey. The prim schoolmistress stared back at him from the photograph. More like a black widow, Cowley considered. Four husbands buried, and Cowley was prepared to guess at least one of them had been dead first. Sacked from her position at several private schools, who had decided it best to hide the evidence under the carpet rather than admit to the levels to which Miss Grey had taken corporal punishment. Employed by Dr. John Sharpe for the last five years, and, Cowley was certain, she had taken every opportunity to hone those sadistic skills to even finer proportions.

Dr. John Sharpe. Tall, elegant, Swiss born Dr. Sharpe. Doctor of theology, philosophy, and psychology. Cowley wondered where he had found the time to gather his underworld contacts; always assuming, of course, that any of those qualifications were genuine.

Mr. Vincent. Real name, unknown. Ex-Special Forces, ex-mercenary. Cowley raised an eyebrow as the irony of the situation stared back at him in the black and white photograph. Blond where Bodie was dark, brown eyed where Bodie was midnight blue. It was as though some diabolic agency had decided to inflict Bodie's negative image on the world. Except, of course, that was assuming heaven had anything to do with the making of William Andrew Philip Bodie, which Cowley sincerely doubted.

And Thomas Jackson. Ah yes. The real fly in the ointment. The proof positive that Doyle's disappearance was no accident. The man was huge, six foot if he was an inch, and obviously the 'bouncer' who had been seen to grab Rhiannon Moncrieffe from the Palais near 48 hours before. Previous history of assault, drug dealing, obtaining money with menaces; and that was ignoring the allegations of murder, rape and assault that had never been pursued. Put away for two years nearly ten years ago, by one Detective Constable Raymond Doyle.

Cowley sighed and pushed the photographs away, removing his glasses to rub his tired eyes. Aye, Bodie would need to be told; and he didn't relish the scene.

 

**************************

Doyle watched as Grey stepped into the light again, shadowed as ever by the hulk of one of her goons. The blond one this time. Vincent, he remembered her calling him. The perfectly painted face regarded him with her usual smile, never reaching the dead brown eyes.

He had heard the screams a few minutes before. The sounds had ripped through him; he recognised the anguished, animalistic screams of terror. Anger burned in his green eyes. Grey saw it, and knew with a warm rush of certainty that putting Doyle in direct contact with Rhiannon would bring a mutual sense of protection that would raise interesting possibilities to assuage her boredom until this business was sorted.

"Well, I think we should arrange for you to meet our other guest, Mr. Doyle," she said, a cold smile flickering across her face. "Familiarity breeds more than contempt, you know. It also breeds weakness."

With a click of her fingers, Vincent stepped forward. "You may release Mr. Doyle, Mr. Vincent. I am sure he will not cause any problems."

"And why's that?" Doyle's voice was mocking, but he felt a coldness creep into his stomach.

She smiled cruelly. "Quite simply, Mr. Doyle, if you cause any trouble, I'll flay the skin from the young lady's hide in front of your eyes." She couldn't hide the flare of pleasure that lit her eyes from the thought of it. "I can make such a thing last a very long time indeed. And if by some miracle you were able to escape, you would find it utterly impossible to take her with you. And then, when they find the body – and they will – I will make absolutely sure that you know every single thing that was done to her before she died." Colour flushed her cheeks and Doyle knew she wasn't lying.

He allowed Vincent to cut the ropes that bound him, wincing in pain as blood flow was restored to the restricted limbs. Despite his best efforts, he needed the brute to help him walk from the room and down the passage beyond. He tried to take in his surroundings. It was like an underground bunker, tiled walls, a circular tunnel. He couldn't place it. 

Two doors away from where he had been held, he was pushed against a wall while a door was unlocked. The room inside was brightly lit, opposite to the cell where he had been held with nothing but the bare bulb. A few steps led down to the room, and Vincent pushed him roughly down them. He tried to land as well as possible, but hours with restricted movement left him with heavy limbs slow to respond. He fell hard on the floor, unconsciousness claiming him.

Rhiannon heard the door slam shut. She had stopped screaming soon after the door had closed behind Vincent and Jackson a few minutes before. She had not moved from where she had fallen, the sweat of fear turning cold on her skin. Once she was sure no-one else was going to come down the steps, she crawled nearer to the body lying sprawled on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat at the signs of cruelty on his body. Her own wounds were forgotten as her eyes took in the marks on his chest. His head lolled back, eyes closed, and she could see fresh blood tricking from a cut lip, as well as from a big gash on his forehead. Full, sensuous lips, and she found herself wondering what they would look like when animated, laughing, smiling, speaking. Tousled brown hair fell in unruly curls around his face, glinting soft shades of dark red in the harsh light. She started to reach out to stroke that face, but pulled back before she made contact, frightened at what would happen when she felt warm flesh beneath her fingertips.

She put her head in her hands, her fingers grasping at her own hair despairingly. There just had to be a way she could shut him out of her mind. He had to be a plant of some kind, another way for Grey to get to her. And yet he was so badly hurt. He looked as though he had received much the same treatment as herself, but worse. No tawse for him, lessening the chances of broken skin. She shook her head again - stop it, stop feeling sorry for him - it's a trick - it has to be. But she couldn't stop herself sneaking another look at him, her face hidden by her hair. Looking at him was the direct antithesis of her experiences since this nightmare had begun. Everything around her had been so ugly, so warped and twisted; and this man had been suddenly thrust into the middle of it all, a complete change in tactic. Despite his injuries, he looked like a fallen angel. All lithe muscle and firm, lightly tanned skin. She watched him breathing. If she gave in, she knew the next step would be disaster, one way or another. He had to be there to trick her, to throw her inner balance even further out of kilter. She crouched down beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, running her eyes over his injuries again, allowing her eyes the luxury she denied her fingertips. She wanted to check his injuries were really genuine. But she would be lying to herself if she didn't admit she also wanted to know what that warm, lightly furred skin would feel like against hers. 

With a flutter of his eyelids and a low groan, he opened his eyes, jolting her from her appraisal of him. She edged away from him slightly, wondering what he would do.

He struggled to raise himself up on his elbows. He saw her retreat. "Please," he said in a quiet voice. "Please come back."

She sat down on the concrete floor, clutching her knees to her chest. "Why should I?" she said.

"I want to say sorry." His tongue flicked out, moistening his dry lips and wincing at the still bleeding cut. "It was because of me that they were hurting you."

She gave a curt laugh. "I don't think so. The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."

"They wanted information from me and I wouldn't talk. I didn't realise they would take it out on you. I'm so sorry." He slumped back on the floor, shielding his eyes from the light with his arm. The simple pain in his voice was impossible to ignore. The man's eyes, a warm green, had made the breath catch in her throat. What kind of person was she to find this battered and bruised man so attractive? Was it no more than a need to protect and care? She wasn't made of stone. Just watching him, trying so hard to hide his pain, made her heart leap in her chest, and she felt a strange sensation in her lower back; an aching, physical need, urging her to help him, to trust him, to believe him. But what if it was all an act? She just didn't know what to do, which half of her brain to believe. He groaned again and turned onto his side away from her, curling into a ball as though trying to hide the pain she knew he must be feeling.

Oh to hell with the lot of it, she thought. How can it possibly get worse? Even if he was a trick, he was in pain, and she'd be damned if she let them strip her humanity away from her.

His blurred vision finally settled into focus and he decided to risk standing. He pushed himself up, trying for a sitting position, but dizziness swept over him again briefly. Suddenly, he felt arms around him, her warmth against his back, as she took some of his weight until he regained his equilibrium. Her voice sounded close to his ear.

"Grey doesn't need an excuse, if you must know, so don't blame yourself," she said. She released him slowly, waiting to see whether he would slump again. When he seemed able to maintain his balance, her hands slid gently over his arms and ribs, checking for breakages. "Now, don't move too soon, not till we've made sure, eh?" 

He turned his head to one side, wanting to see the owner of the voice and the probing hands, and found himself looking into a face that was, on the whole, unmarred save for a cut lip and a growing bruise above one eye. Large, dark blue eyes regarded him from a perfect heart shaped face. She had an old fashioned beauty, like a 1930s Hollywood film star. But photographs did not do her justice; they failed to capture the life and sparkle in the cobalt eyes. When the warm hands left his skin, he felt a twinge of regret.

He heard a soft laugh. "Mind you, if you're another one of her bloody tricks, I'll break your neck, you know." Despite the threat in the words, there was mockery as well.

"I'm not a trick," he managed. "I'm CI5."

That got him a smile, laughter lighting the blue eyes. "Are you indeed? Most people just have a name, not a number."

He smiled with difficulty. "Ray Doyle."

She sat back, allowing him space to move. "Well, Ray Doyle. I'm Rhia." He noticed she had drawn her legs up under her chin, wrapping her forearms around her legs. He started to sit up. "And before you get embarrassed, I should warn you – I'm naked."

He opened his eyes wide, taking in the reason for her defensive seated position. "Before I get embarrassed?" he said.

She gave a shrug. "Well, I suppose to tell the truth, one never feels truly naked with a tattoo."

He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. He drew himself up to sit facing her, his position mimicking her own. His gaze moved quickly over her, noting how she was hiding as much of herself as possible, but seeing the bruises and welts covering her body. The fingermarks at her throat looked fresh, along with the bruising along the line of her chin. He wondered what other marks she was hiding along with her nakedness.

Wincing, he removed his shirt and handed it to her. Her face took on a strange expression.

"Here," he said, as if she needed an explanation. She reached out hesitantly and took it from him, her gaze not meeting his. Instead, she seemed transfixed by the shirt. "I'm sorry it's not cleaner," he added.

She raised her eyes to meet his then, a flash of anger in their blue depths. "You think I care about that?" she said sharply. The anger disappeared as quickly as it came. "It's just..."

He watched her carefully. "Just - what?"

The look she gave him was hard, unreadable. "Nothing."

"I'm not trying to trick you."

She put one arm through the sleeve of the green shirt, wincing as it brushed against the cuts on her back as she put her other arm through it. She wrapped it around herself and seemed to relax. The shirt had seemed such an obvious thing to give her, but Doyle sensed it meant far more to her than just something to cover herself with. It seemed to give her an added shield, another layer of dignity.

"If you were trying to trick me, you've gone to an awful lot of trouble for it," she said casually, indicating the lacerations on his chest. She stood up with difficulty, but Doyle sensed she would not welcome his assistance. Instead, once standing, she reached down for his hand. He took it hesitantly, and allowed her at least the pretence of helping him to his feet. Once standing, she reached out to his chest, running a cool hand over the wounds. The gentle touch caused him to shiver, but not with cold.

"You must have annoyed her."

"Why do you say that?"

She stopped her inspection of his wounds and raised her eyes to meet his. "Because she prefers to have more control over the blood she spills," she replied. She reached for his hand again. "Come over here and let's have a look at you." 

Unable to resist the gentle pull, Doyle allowed himself to be led to the opposite corner of the cell. There was nothing to sit on, no mattress or blanket, but she indicated for him to sit down on the floor. She was right; somehow the floor seemed warmer this side of the room than the other. The back wall as well seemed to retain heat. 

"You may as well take off what's left of the t-shirt."

He obeyed without a word, not knowing what she was going to do, but somehow unwilling to break this strange truce that had sprung up between them so easily.

With the shirt off, she reached into the corner and produced a metal mug half filled with water. Using the cleaner portions of the t-shirt, she gently removed the dried blood and dirt from his wounds, prompting him to turn around when she had finished with his chest. Even the cut on his head had stopped bleeding now. When she had finished, she propped herself against the wall beside him.

"You see, if you're a plant, then you're here to make friends with me. Get under my skin." She paused, staring at nothing as though gathering her thoughts. "But even if you are a plant, you still needed those wounds cleaning up. And if I didn't let myself do that – if I let them get to me so much that I can't offer some kind of comfort to another human being who is suffering – well," she shrugged. "Then they've won, haven't they?"

She turned her face to his at last, watching the confusion in his green eyes. "Anyway, I always was a sucker for the last puppy in the shop."

Doyle smiled. "You're not a sucker. You're just kind." He reached out and took her hand in his, gently lacing their fingers together.

"Some people would say that's the same thing," she said.

"You're Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe," he said, tightening his grip on her hand as he felt her start.

"So what if I am?" 

"I really am from CI5. And you're not alone." He knew what the gentle care had been about; why she had felt the need to look after him even if he was there only to trick her. She needed contact, comfort. She saw the knowledge in his wide green eyes.

Without another word, he drew her closer, carefully placing his arm around her shoulders, letting her head rest against his collarbone, under his chin.

********************

Bodie threw his keys into the bowl on the sideboard, resisting the temptation to grab something fragile and hurl it against the wall. It had been gone 9pm when he'd returned from Taunton, and Cowley had left the offices, leaving orders for Bodie to report to him without fail 7am the following morning. 

There had been no word from Doyle.

He turned to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a large Scotch and downing it immediately. Now, it was gone midnight, and he'd been scouring London looking for his partner, without success. He glanced at his watch – if he went to bed now, he'd manage about four hours sleep.

He considered another drink before deciding against it. With practice borne of years of self control, he went to the bedroom. Four hours sleep could make all the difference the next day, the difference between life and death, for himself or someone else. He sat on the edge of the bed, considering the options. With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face, before turning the movement into yanking the shirt over his head and discarding it. He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, forcing his breathing into a long slow rhythm, and allowed sleep to take him.

 

******************

 

**Friday – June 17th**

At exactly 7am, Bodie knocked on the door to Cowley's office, letting himself in when the curt command acknowledged him.

"Was Taunton productive, 3-7?" Cowley seemed intent on a photograph in front of him.

Bodie stood with a calmness he did not feel. "Only in so much as it confirms we're dealing with a bit more than a religious establishment, sir?"

"Oh?" The grey eyes finally raised over the dark framed glasses and looked at Bodie. "And why so?"

"Devine claims they pushed him full of drugs so no-one would believe him. Seems to think they'd do the same to anyone else who crosses them. And they always have a patsy to take the blame."

Cowley considered Bodie's words carefully,weighing them with his own findings.

"Sir?" Bodie's voice broke through his thoughts. "Is there any news of Doyle yet, sir?" 

Cowley was aware of the barely reined in tension of 3-7's body, and was only wondering how long it would take for that pressure to explode.

"Devine described a girl – Hope - who matched a description Doyle gave of a woman he was meant to meet yesterday at the house in Covent Garden," Bodie added. "Devine is convinced this woman is dangerous. She's a lure."

"Was Devine able to tell you any more of where they'd be likely to hold any kidnap victim?"

"No, sir," Bodie replied, the clipped voice leaving no doubt that he knew his question had been sidestepped, and still awaiting an answer.

In reply, Cowley threw a black and white photograph across the desk. It was a tall hulking man, a wall of muscle. "Thomas Jackson. Has previous for assault, GBH, obtaining money with menaces. Now he seems to have been engaged by the Children of the Way to deal with their more.... earthly pursuits." Bodie examined the photograph closely. "And there's more."

The dark blue eyes met Cowley's. "More?"

"Aye, laddie." Cowley's voice was tinged with regret. "Turns out he was arrested several years ago. By one Detective Constable Ray Doyle."

"Jesus..." Bodie stifled the blasphemy sharply before Cowley bit his head off for it. "That's it then. They've got Ray. So do we move in?" When Cowley didn't reply immediately, Bodie plunged on. "Nobody's heard from him. We know the address, where he was to meant to meet them yesterday, we know the girl's name who was leading him on. What are we waiting for?" Bodie's open hand slammed onto the desk.

Cowley paused, considering his options. "You're right. Not that I approve of your tone of voice, laddie," Cowley snapped, harshly reminding Bodie exactly who was boss here. "I don't think we have a choice," he conceded. "As things stand, they may not put Doyle and Lady Moncrieffe together. They may think we're after them for their other affairs. It's better if they continue to think that way. Divide their attention." Cowley lost himself for a brief second in his own double think. "Take Murphy and Jax as backup," he said quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. "But you need to move in with the utmost care. Grab the girl and bring her back here. Leave no signs. And Bodie!" The sharp voice dragged him back from the doorway, Cowley's finger raised in warning. "I need her in one piece, laddie. One piece and talking. Else she's no use to us to find Doyle and the girl. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, already half way out the door. He knew exactly where his priorities lay, and he'd get the information out of the girl if he had to wring it out of her.

*************************

Rhiannon felt comfortable. That was a strange thing to feel, under the circumstances. As she dozed, she realised the reason she felt comfortable was because for the first time in a long while, her head was resting on something soft. She had gone to sleep sitting upright, but somehow she had slipped forward and was now using Ray's thigh as a pillow. His hand ran gently through her hair and she smiled in her half sleep. The room wasn't cold, but the shared body heat was welcome, as well as the simple comfort of contact with another human being.

But something disturbed her; something that she couldn't quite work out. A distant sound, a rumbling, not quite like thunder. At first she ignored it and it went away, but then she noticed that it came back a few minutes later. She frowned, and sat up. 

"You okay?" he asked.

"It's a tube train," she said, looking confused. "I can hear a tube train. Sshh, listen." They both held their breaths and sure enough the rumbling obligingly returned only a few minutes later. 

Doyle looked around the cell with renewed interest, looking up at the curve of the ceiling and the tiled walls. "Jesus - we're in an underground station, maybe a disused one. That makes sense."

Rhiannon flashed him a smile, blue eyes dancing. "Well, I'm more than just a pretty face you know."

He grinned at her, at the irrepressible life he saw in her. "That's my line."

The drag of metal as the bolt was drawn back on the door interrupted any further conversation.

The cell suddenly became much smaller and chilled as Jackson and Vincent both strode into the room, reaching down for Rhiannon. Doyle's arms tightened instinctively around her, but Jackson's sharp kick in his ribs broke his hold and the two men yanked her roughly to her feet. She looked back at Doyle, pleading in her eyes. He struggled to get to his feet. "No," he said, his breathing harsh from his battered ribs. "Leave her alone."

Miss Grey stepped into view, a small smile on her lips. Somehow, it must be another day, Doyle realised. She had changed clothes, her make-up slightly different. But it was still a flawless mask of powder and paint. "Ah, you've made friends so quickly." Her voice held a victorious note, and Doyle knew they had simply given her yet another weapon to use against them.

"Back off, lover boy," said Jackson, enjoying another opportunity to make Doyle suffer as he punched him hard between the ribs. Doyle fell back against the wall, clutching his midriff. He slid down the wall, breathing painful from the numerous bruises and batterings his ribs had taken. He tried to stand again, but Vincent's foot landed heavily on his chest, pinning him to the floor. He could only watch, straining his neck to see beyond where Grey stood, to where Jackson pushed Rhiannon to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees, a position that only increased Jackson's amusement and made the blood run cold in Doyle's veins. Jackson stood over her, reaching down to wind her long dark hair around his hand before using it to drag her back to her feet.

Jackson pushed Rhiannon against the wall, her face pressed against the cold tiled surface. He leaned up against her with all his weight, pushing his hip between her legs, forcing them apart. He brought his face to lie against hers, long tongue sliding against her cheek in a gesture that made Doyle want to kill him where he stood. The silvery sound of a butterfly blade echoed through the cell as the knife appeared in Jackson's hand. She turned her head away, not daring to imagine what he was going to do next. Without a word, he cut a chunk of hair from the side of her tangled mop and passed it to Vincent. He leaned forward again, bringing his head up close to hers, breathing into her ear. He grabbed her hip roughly, pulling her away from the wall slightly, and allowed his hand to slide down the front of the shirt, following the line of her stomach downwards.

His voice was a ragged whisper, and Rhiannon felt a hardness sticking into her that made her want to vomit. "You're coming with me, love. There's something else I want from you today." He wound her long hair around his fist again and dragged her away, pausing on the steps to aim an unholy grin straight at Doyle. Not once had she screamed, or begged. The thought made Doyle feel strangely proud. She'd gasped in pain, in shock, but not once had she given them the satisfaction of hearing her plead.

Grey stepped closer, blocking Doyle's view before Jackson dragged Rhiannon from the room, the door closing behind them.

"What's she got to do with anything?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

Grey raised an eyebrow calmly, her hands held primly in front of her. "Well, she's a wealthy woman, Mr. Doyle. And wealthy women are valuable commodities."

He frowned, pretending to misunderstand her. "Slavery?"

She gave a brittle laugh. "Oh no, Mr. Doyle. You've been reading far too many penny dreadfuls." Her smile faded. "Lady Moncrieffe had it within her power to give us a great deal of money. She withheld that information. We do not appreciate liars. But it matters not. Her father will pay a great deal of money to have her restored, we're sure of that at least."

"Only in one piece," Doyle snarled. "What's the gorilla doing with her now?"

There was a subtle narrowing of Grey's cold brown eyes, and a smile of realisation. She crouched down carefully, bringing her immaculate mask closer to his face. "Ah, that's your real concern, isn't it? What's happening to her right now. What's being done to her – right now." Doyle started to rise but further pressure from Vincent's foot pinned him down again. His green eyes flashed angrily, and he could feel the sickness of temper and fear for Rhiannon churning in his stomach.

As though reading his thoughts, feeling the turmoil of emotions running through him, Grey gave another smile. "Jackson is very inventive, you know. Of course, there are many willing girls amongst the Children, but Jackson finds that boring somehow. He prefers to take what others aren't willing to give. Finds it more satisfying." Doyle's eyes closed, the images his mind brought forth stilling his struggles. "And of course, bruised as she is, it won't be difficult for him to make her feel every single touch twice as painfully as if she were untouched."

Doyle threw Vincent's foot off, leaping to his feet as the big man stumbled. He reached for Grey, but Vincent recovered quickly, the mercenary anticipating Doyle's reaction. He grabbed Doyle before his hands could connect, and threw the slightly built man back against the wall. Grey's Walther PPK had slid into her hand with surprising quickness for a woman of her years. She watched with satisfaction as Doyle struggled against Vincent's greater weight, landing a few punches, but the big man used his size and weight advantage to prevent Doyle from making any of the blows count. An iron fist rammed into his stomach, and Doyle doubled up against the wall, Vincent stepping back to allow Doyle to slide gracelessly to the floor. 

Doyle restrained himself with difficulty; he had to remember that any retribution for his actions would be taken from Rhia. Grey watched the defiance in the man's face with a curiosity that was almost intellectual in its scrutiny.

The noise of the door opening again brought her back to the present, and she stood. "Maybe he's finished with her already. I do hope he hasn't broken her completely." With a curt gesture, she called Vincent to her side and they strode from the room, leaving Doyle curled against the wall. He couldn't hide his relief at the figure of Rhiannon as she walked steadily down the steps back into the cellar. He guessed what it cost her to keep that bruised back so ramrod straight as she brushed past Grey and Vincent as though they didn't exist. When she was standing beside Doyle again, she turned and watched them leave. Only when the doors closed did she relax, sliding back down to sit beside him. She put her face in her hands, and he could see her shaking.

He was almost afraid to touch her. "What was all that about?" he asked.

At first, he thought she hadn't heard him, then she raised her head slightly. "Nothing," she said at last. "They just wanted to take a photograph."

"Jackson, did he...?" Doyle let the question hang, not knowing how to ask, afraid of what the answer might be.

"It doesn't matter," she replied with a sigh. She lay her head against his shoulder again, and without another word, he drew her into his embrace.

***********************

Jax pulled up behind the silver Capri parked opposite the house Doyle had entered the day before, Murphy sat beside him. They left the car and walked over to the Ghia. Bodie wound the window down, his face like thunder. 

“There was no need to rush off like that, mate. We're all on the same side you know,“ said Murphy, a look of understanding in his eyes.

“I know,” Bodie said, his voice flat. “Let's just get on with it,” he added his eyes dark with anger. If looks could kill, Murphy would surely be pushing up daisies by now. “You take the back. Jax, you keep watch out here. I'm going in.” Murphy and Jax both nodded their agreement to the plan that was basic standard procedure. Besides, no-one particularly wanted to provoke Bodie in this mood. As they began to move, Bodie grabbed Murphy's shoulder, getting both their attention again. "There's a girl in there – called Hope. Whatever you do, don't believe a word she says." Both men frowned in confusion, but saw the earnest look in Bodie's eyes, and nodded their agreement.

Murphy strode casually across the street and disappeared down the side of the house. Bodie waited a minute to give Murphy a chance to get into position, then got out of the car and walked over to the property. He jogged lightly up the stone steps and stood silently for a minute, listening intently. He was fully prepared to pick the lock, but he tried the door knob on the off chance that it might actually be unlocked. To his astonishment, it opened. He shook his head; he should have realised this was a headquarters of an organisation that had a drop in centre and regular recruitment sessions. Of course the door would be open. In perfect silence, he shut the door behind him and slipped into the hallway, keeping himself flat against the wall as he edged along. He paused outside an open door that led to a large sitting room; nobody home.

A dark stain on the floor caught his eye. He had too much experience to doubt what he saw; it was blood, fresh enough to retain some of the redness. Day old, he guessed. Doyle. His jaw clenched hard and his eyes glittered.

A little further along, he was outside another open door, the sound of pots and pans being banged about masking his approach. A woman's voice could be heard singing, “Have you seen the young man, who walks the streets of London.” That was more than enough for Bodie. He drew his Browning. He had always hated that song. 

Without a whisper of sound, he stepped into the kitchen. Bodie saw a petite, blonde haired woman standing at the sink, washing up, happily singing away. As she turned to collect the next heap of dirty dishes, she found herself staring wide eyed at the tall, intense stranger with the eyes of a killer standing only a few feet away from her. In her shock, the dishes fell to the ground with a loud smash.

“Are you okay, Hope?” came a call from elsewhere in the building.

A dangerous light appeared in his dark blue eyes. So this was Hope? Well, he had a couple of promises to make good.

“Tell her you dropped a plate,” said Bodie in a low voice, his gun pointed directly at her. 

“I - I dropped a plate,” she called out, not able to take her eyes from the terrible figure. 

“Tell her you're okay,” he said in the same soft, deadly voice.

“I'm okay,” she said loudly, 

“Good girl.” Bodie moved nearer, still pointing the gun straight at her chest. He reached out and touched her silky blond hair. “What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” His half smile did not touch his cold blue eyes. He closed the door behind him with a backwards kick of his leg, giving their conversation much needed privacy. 

“What do you want?” she asked. Her large blue eyes were bright with fear, her voice shaking. 

“I've heard so much about you, Hope," he began, his voice almost friendly. But then the shark-like deadness crossed his face. "My friend came here for a meeting. He never came back out.” Like a predator stalking an already wounded prey, he slowly advanced on her.

“I don't know anything about that,” she said, trying to back away but coming up against the kitchen table with a thump. Every inch she backed away, Bodie came closer. 

“Liar,” he whispered, the soft sound worse than a shout. “I could shoot you. You do know that, don't you?” he said, a strange smile on his pale face.

She licked her lips, feeling her heart beating frantically in her throat. “Do that, and you'd never find your friend,” she said, desperation in her voice.

A black eyebrow quirked over a sapphire blue eye. “So you do know who I'm talking about?” Bodie's pulse was racing now; he was getting tired of playing games, and tired of her lies.

Her eyes widened as she realised her mistake. “I -I -I don't - I don't know," she stammered. "We have a lot of guests here,” she spoke quickly, trying to regain her self control. “I don't know who you mean.”

Then she made a mistake. She smiled.

Bodie had been in complete control until this point. Now, in the face of someone prepared to play the pretty fool at the cost of his friend’s life, he lost it. He remembered the look on Christopher Devine's face when he spoke of this woman; the warning, and the promise to make her pay. The coldness in his eyes became something terrible. Something diabolic. “Tell me where he is,” he demanded through gritted teeth. “Now.”

She stared straight at him, glassy-eyed, impassive and unemotional. “I can't.”

“Can’t?”

She seemed to drag up some hitherto hidden courage from inside her, her breathing calm. “Won’t,” she added defiantly.

With a silent explosion of rage, Bodie let fly, the back of his hand catching her full in the face and sending her reeling backwards onto the table. He did not allow her time to recover or even recognise her situation. He put a large, powerful hand carefully and deliberately around her neck and started to squeeze, gently but firmly. She struggled beneath him, but all the strength she could muster had no impact on Bodie She was a slip of a girl against a force of nature, her blows glancing off his strong body without registering. He carried on with the slow strangulation.

“Where is Ray?” he said, dark menace in his voice. Even if she wanted to tell him, she would have found it difficult. She started to go blue, her eyes almost popping out of her head. 

Suddenly there was a rush of air as Murphy came through the kitchen door from the rear garden. He grabbed Bodie by the shoulders and tried to pull him back. “Bodie!” he hissed. “Get off her!”

Coming to his senses, Bodie released her and she collapsed on the table, gasping for breath and clutching at her own throat in desperation. Although he had been the one doing the strangling, Bodie’s own breath was ragged and harsh.

“Back off, Murphy,” Bodie hissed, giving Murphy a look that left him in no doubt that he should do exactly as he was told. 

Bodie grabbed the girl by the shoulders, refusing to allow her to shrink away from him. Despite his rage, he noticed her expression, particularly her eyes, looked somehow different. He watched as she slowly wiped the trickle of blood from her lips, and saw the strange look in her eyes as she saw the blood. An unholy smile spread across her face.

"Ray was bleeding. When they took him," she said, in a sing-song whisper. She turned her huge, cornflower blue eyes to Bodie. He thought back to the stain on the carpet.

Bodie shook her. “Where is Ray? Tell me where he is.” The sweet, innocent act was gone; her smile was fixed, like a painted doll. The only life in her face was when she looked at the blood staining the back of her hand.

“He didn't bleed for long," she said, in the same dreamy voice. "Only a scratch," Bodie barely controlled himself at the sound of disappointment in her voice. He let go of her as though she burned him.

Murphy put his hand on Bodie's arm, watching the strange reaction with the same curiosity as his friend. “Look at her mate, it's like she's in a trance or something.” It did appear to be the only explanation. “Let me try? Please, Bodie.”

Bodie pushed the girl into Murphy's hands, as though only too glad to be free of her. “Are you okay, love?” asked Murphy. 

Murphy gave a warm, reassuring smile, far removed from the cold mask on Bodie‘s face. “We need to find our friend, Ray. Do you know him?”

Her eyes widened, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Murphy was amazed at the sudden change, as though a new personality had switched on as soon as she noticed she had someone new to play to. “I remember. Ray is so lovely, I really liked him. I didn't want them to hurt him.” Her eyes pleaded with them to believe her.

“Do you know where he is?” asked Murphy gently. 

She shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t tell me. Only that it was necessary.” She drew a deep, shaking breath. “Oh they won’t hurt him, will they?” She turned her child-like, tear streaked eyes to Murphy. “Will they?”

Bodie watched the pretty act drop firmly back into place. Even though he knew what to look for, he couldn't find any cracks in her facade. Grimly, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away from Murphy, leading her towards the inner door.

"Shout up there. Tell them you're just going out," he ordered in his soft whisper.

The wide-eyes narrowed as she looked at him, seeing he was not going to be taken in by her porcelain doll act. She seemed to be considering her options, but the firm grip on her arm, and the promise of death in his cold eyes left her with no choice.

"I'm just going out," she called out. "I won't be long."

Bodie closed the door quietly on the shouted goodbyes. She understood, he realised. She wasn't going to fool anyone again. He thrust her back into Murphy's grip.

"You take her, Murph. Just looking at her makes me feel like I need a bath."

Murphy took out his R/T. “Jax, get round the back and come in the kitchen door.” Bodie stood staring at them both, chest heaving with adrenaline. It took only seconds for Jax to arrive and Murphy handed him the girl. “We’re getting her back to HQ.”

Jax put his arms around the sobbing girl and started to lead her away, but Bodie reached out suddenly to stop them. Jax saw the girl flinch from Bodie’s touch and exchanged a curious look with Murphy.

“Do you know anything about a girl, Rhiannon Moncrieffe?” Bodie asked, his voice carefully modulated to be calm.

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen Rhiannon for months. She left.” Her voice had lost the wheedling, cute quality when she spoke to Bodie, Murphy noticed.

“And has anyone mentioned her since?”

“We’re forbidden to talk about the ones who leave,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. “They tell us to treat them like they’ve died.”

As Jax led the docile girl away, Murphy grabbed Bodie by the shoulders and looked straight into his eyes.

“Bodie? For Christ's sake! Pull yourself together!”

Bodie's calm mask slipped as he grabbed Murphy's arms and forced him to let go. "Don't get taken in by her, Murph," he hissed. "She's mad, a liar."

Bodie stalked out of the house and back towards the Capri, Murphy behind him. “She's not the only one who's mad around here. Keep a clear head, mate.”

Bodie nodded. He wasn't about to apologise for caring. Instead he managed a gruff, “Right.” He opened the car door as Murphy slid into the passenger seat beside him.

“Doyle can take care of himself. You know it and I know it. He’s taken care of you enough times as well.”

Bodie gave a sigh and reached for the ignition. “Yeah. You’re right.” He had to concede the point; he just didn’t have to feel any better about it. His partner was out there, alone, with no-one to watch his back.

“The best we can hope is that they are together. Stand a better chance of finding them both alive that way.” Murphy voiced Bodie’s unspoken thought.

Without a word, Bodie pulled out and joined the traffic, following Jax back to HQ.

 

***************

 

Hope sat at the desk in the interview room looking very small and scared. She held her hands clasped together at her knees, looking around nervously, for all the world like a small child called to the Headmaster's office.

Bodie, Murphy and Cowley looked at her from the adjoining room, through the one way mirror. 

"Do you believe her when she says she doesn't know where Doyle and Rhiannon are?" asked Cowley.

"I don't believe a word that comes out of her pretty mouth," said Bodie. His calm tone belied the anger behind his voice. Murphy looked sideways at him. He was already wondering how he was going to explain how he'd had to stop Bodie choking the life out of her, never mind the tell-tale bruising on her cheek from where a hand had obviously connected. 

"She seemed to react well to you, Murphy," Cowley said, trying to decide on the most effective course of action. He looked at his watch. "It's lunchtime. Take her a cup of tea, offer her a sandwich. See what you can do."

Bodie watched Murphy leave the room, leaving him alone with the dour controller.

"Don't worry, Bodie." Cowley's voice cut through his thoughts. "We know better than get taken in by that little girl lost routine."

Bodie nodded thoughtfully. "She's fooled a lot of people with that. Fooled Doyle."

"You don't know that, man. And it's not like he didn't know he was going into dangerous territory."

Bodie walked across to the window and looked out at the grey day outside. Cowley knew he had to channel Bodie's aggression in order to get the best out of him. "We will find them Bodie," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Bodie, continuing to stare out of the window. "But will we be in time?"

 

******************

 

Rhiannon hugged her knees close to her, watching through tear streaked eyes as Vincent hauled Doyle to his feet. Doyle allowed his wrists to be bound together, watching the menacing shadow of Jackson as he loomed over Rhiannon. She was trying not to shake, he could tell; trying not to cry. Her stubbornness almost brought a smile to his lips. He had already assessed the situation; Grey stood at the foot of the stairs, her PPK never far away. Vincent was a wall of solid muscle; it would take all of Doyle's snake-like speed to deal with the larger, stronger man. And by the time he'd managed that, either Jackson or Grey would have put a bullet in him or Rhia, and not necessarily a killing bullet either. So far, the three antagonists had always managed to maintain a triangular position; he could take one, maybe two, but that would always leave another to retaliate. He had to be patient, bide his time, wait until he had only one of them to deal with. He may only get one opportunity.

Rhiannon's eyes never left him as his bound hands were latched to the hook that had held her suspended. He was lifted until his feet barely skimmed the floor, the lean muscles of his back and chest standing out starkly. The pressure on his wrists made him grit his teeth, his breath a slight hiss.

Vincent stood back to admire his handiwork. "Very well behaved, Mr. Doyle." Grey's voice came from the foot of the stairs. A patronising smile played on her perfect lips. "Mr. Jackson?"

Doyle's head turned as quickly as he could manage, seeing Jackson grab Rhiannon's hair and use it to pull her to her feet. He saw the fear flash in her eyes as she tried to free his hands from her hair. Jackson smiled at her weak efforts, pulling her up onto the tips of her toes to bring her face level with his own. At the sight of his smile, her temper flared and she lashed out, punching him hard, but ineffectually in the face. 

"No!" Doyle yelled, as Jackson grabbed her throat and pinned her against the wall. She scratched at his hands, trying to loosen his grip.

Doyle's cry was stopped by the sudden blow to his stomach, almost folding him in half. Muscles strained as he tried to absorb the impact. When his eyes opened again, he saw Rhiannon still pinned to the wall, her eyes wide with horror. When the cosh was raised again, he saw her struggle vainly, shaking her head, willing it to stop.

Grey, a voyeur to the torments, stood at the foot of the stairs and smiled.

***************

 

Bodie stared once again through the one way mirror. If Murphy didn't get something out of her soon, he was going in there himself, Cowley or no Cowley.

Once the little-girl-lost act had been broken, Hope really was a nasty piece of work. Whether the cult had intended to or not, they had made a pretty good start in turning her into a psychopath. Any threats, real or implied, seemed to bring out an unholy pleasure in her. The only thing that they could get her to talk about was the torture meted out to members who didn't conform, who started to question. Bodie was reminded again of Christopher Devine. It wasn't difficult to believe, now, that they were capable of destroying people completely, and then covering up their tracks behind them.

She either didn't know about any guns or drugs, or wouldn't say. It amounted to the same thing. But Cowley was sure he could break her; and Bodie had to admit, if anyone could do it, it was Cowley.

A sudden flurry broke the tension. Betty called Cowley from the door of the observation room. "Telephone, sir. Earl of Rochester."

Bodie followed Cowley as he left the room and grabbed the nearest telephone. The dour Scot was barely on the telephone for half a minute.

"Don't touch a thing! We'll be over right away." He barked the command, replacing the receiver without another word. "Bodie." He knew the man would be nearby. 

"Sir?"

Cowley turned and cast an appraising look over one half of his best team. The man was coiled, senses alert to everything, just waiting for the precise time to strike. Cowley could sense the time was getting near when Bodie would need all that pent up energy.

"Lord Moncrieffe has received a parcel at his offices in Westminster. Get us there."

Bodie moved into action with the fluid grace Cowley expected, keeping close to the controller's left side, deftly removing any and all obstacles before sliding into the driving seat and tackling the traffic with the same single-minded determination.

Aye, Cowley reflected. Bodie was a force of nature, alright. A force to be reckoned with.

The Capri slid to a standstill outside the offices. A policeman approached and barely managed to get two words out of his order for Bodie to remove his vehicle before a CI5 ID was thrust into his face, and a very irate George Cowley was demanding he get out of the way.

The two men found their way to Lord Moncrieffe's offices with barely a hesitation. The look on Bodie's face was enough to forestall most complaints, and Cowley's reputation preceeded him. The secretary ushered them into the Earl's offices, where Cowley had met him just two days before.

The Earl looked ill, his complexion an unhealthy grey, but his handshake was as firm as ever.

"George, thank you for coming so quickly."

"Well, we can't assume anything is safe, Richard." Cowley tried for a flippant tone, but the man seemed past such trivialities. "This is Bodie, one of my best."

The Earl took Bodie's hand easily.

"Where's the parcel?" Cowley's impatience was shared by them all.

“A courier delivered it to the officer at the front desk. Motorcycle helmet. No description, except a large man, well-built." Jackson, Cowley though. It would fit the pattern. "Rush hour traffic, no-one saw anything else. All too busy going home." The Earl indicated the small box, wrapped in brown paper, that sat on his desk. 

With a polite nod to excuse the intrusion, Bodie examined the parcel carefully, expertly running his fingers lightly across the brown paper, feeling for wires. He looked up at Cowley. “Nothing,” he said, the handsome face set in stone. He took his pen knife from his pocket and carefully cut along one edge of the wrapping. He tipped the parcel up, and the contents, a photo and an envelope, fell out onto the table. After checking it carefully, he handed the envelope to Cowley and looked at the photo. It was Rhiannon, but a shadow of the girl from the other picture he had seen of her. Blue eyes were circled with black shadows, and her hair hung in a ragged mass. Suddenly his pulse rate increased as he realised what he was looking at. “Shit.”

“What is it, man?” Cowley snapped.

“That's my – that's my shirt.” He bit down on further profanity as he held out the photo for Cowley to see, his hand shaking slightly as he pointed to the green shirt she wore. It was clearly a man’s shirt, too big for her, and with buttons missing.

Cowley opened the envelope and tipped a lock of hair onto the table. The Earl reached out slowly to run his fingers over the dark brown curls that matched those in the photograph. Cowley read the rather patronising note that had been wrapped around the lock of hair.

“ 'Thank you for your patience. The fee previously agreed upon must be placed in a small holdall and left in security box number 13 in the Left Luggage area of Waterloo Station, by noon tomorrow. If any attempt is made to interfere with the holdall or the person collecting it, Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe will require a funeral. Your co-operation is appreciated.' Richard – might I have a moment alone with my man?" Cowley's calm voice and reassuring smile followed the Earl from the room, but disappeared the moment he was alone with Bodie.

Bodie barely managed to contain his anger until the door was closed. “That's just crap!” he exploded at last. “They haven't said anything about when we get her back in return! And now we know for sure that Doyle is with her. She's wearing my shirt for Christ's sake!”

Cowley removed his glasses to fix Bodie with a hard glare. “3-7. I am fully aware of the situation. And if you can’t keep your emotions under control, I will have you sat in a holding cell back at headquarters faster than you can think!”

Bodie took a deep breath, reining in his emotions. Cowley regarded him, knowing the emotions were boiling under the surface.

“Ach laddie, you’re no use to Doyle or the girl unless you’re in control of yourself. You know that.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Bodie’s voice was perfectly modulated control, and it didn’t fool Cowley for an instant.

Lord Moncrieffe suddenly re-entered the room. A fine haze of sweat sheened his face. "George – it's a telephone call."

"Put it through in here."

The Earl nodded for his secretary to do as Cowley ordered, before taking a deep breath. He moved to stand by his desk, ready to answer.

Even though they were expecting it, the noise of the telephone ringing still made them jump.

Moncrieffe put it on loud speaker. "Moncrieffe," he said sharply. 

"Good evening to you, my lord," the voice spoke heavily. Male, but muffled. "I hope you have received my parcel?"

"I have." Bodie marvelled at the man's calm control. Only the bead of sweat slowly trickling down his temple gave any indication of the inner battle.

"And you agree our terms?"

"I do."

"Then there is nothing more to discuss."

"Let me speak to my daughter!" The voice cracked, the carefully contained emotions leaking through.

There was a sound rather like a laugh from the speaker. "But of course. Only to be expected."

There were muffled sounds, the telephone being moved, echoing voices speaking words that could not be deciphered.

"Dad?"

Lord Moncrieffe seemed to fold at the sound of the female voice, collapsing into his seat as though his muscles could no longer hold him upright.

"Rhiannon? Rhia," he stammered over her name. Bodie noticed with embarrassment the tears flowing from the old man's eyes. 

"I'm fine, Dad. Honest. My tiny hands are frozen as usual." She sounded like she was trying to laugh. "Look, it won't be long now, Dad. I'm fine. Got someone to watch over me."

The old man seemed struck dumb by the sound of her voice, his mouth moving again and again over her name like a silent prayer. 

"Look – give Steve a message for me, eh? Tell him I've worked out that Jam track he wanted us to do. Got the bass tabs sorted out, so there's no problems. You can do that, can't you?"

"Yes," the voice was stronger than the man looked. "I'll tell him."

"That's it then, Dad. Just give them what they want, and it'll all be back to normal before you know it."

"Does that convince you?" the muffled voice suddenly cut through. As soon as the fragile connection with his daughter was gone, the Earl seemed in control of himself again.

"Yes. There won't be any problems. The money will be there tomorrow."

There was a muffled laugh again. "Thank you, Lord Rochester. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

The telephone went dead. With a shaking hand, the Earl cut the loudspeaker connection.

"Did any of that make sense to you, George?" he asked, his voice shaking. "Rambling about another song, for Christ's sake." The Earl suddenly seemed twenty years older as he lowered his head into his hands.

Bodie and Cowley exchanged looks. Cowley recognised the look in Bodie's eye; he had sensed a weakness, and the killer in him wanted to act on it.

"I think there's more to it than that, Richard." Cowley smiled reassuringly and moved to pour himself and the Earl a good dram of Scotch each. "She's no fool, your daughter."

The Earl gave a short bark of what was almost laughter. "Apart from that boyfriend of hers, no. She's not."

"And I think she's given us something to work with." Cowley passed the glass to the Earl and raised his own to his lips. "Remarkable woman," he remarked again.

The Earl regarded Cowley guardedly, accepting the glass and considering his words. . 

“She said she was being looked after by someone,” said Bodie, catching on to Cowley's train of thought. There was a note of hope in Bodie’s voice that had been missing only moments before. “That's got to be Doyle. And that message is for Steve Dwyer. I'm going to get him.”

“Aye, laddie. You do that.” He watched as Bodie hesitated briefly at the door. "Och, don't wait for me. I'll make my own way back." He placed a reassuring hand on his old friend's shoulder as Bodie left the room. "My best lads, Richard," he said softly. "And I think your daughter is far more helpful than we yet realise."

He sipped his Scotch thoughtfully. "Frozen hands, eh?"

 

*********************

 

Doyle watched from the back wall as the door opened. Vincent lurked by the door, his Beretta held steadily in his large hand, as Jackson manhandled Rhiannon down the stairs. Jackson met Doyle's gaze, a cruel leer twisting his features as he saw the anger in Doyle's eyes and the way his muscles tightened instinctively. Jackson pulled Rhiannon to stand in front of him, never breaking eye contact with Doyle. He lay his hands on her shoulders, watching Doyle's reaction as his hands slowly moved down her front, one hand settling inside the shirt to squeeze her breast painfully, while the other slid further down the flat stomach.

"Jackson." Vincent's sharp command brought the hulking menace to heel, and he thrust her forward with a grunt. Doyle moved quickly, ready to catch her as she stumbled. Jackson stayed glaring at him for a second longer before lumbering up the stairs and allowing Vincent to usher him out. Doyle saw the dispassionate look on the blond man's face before the door slammed shut on them again.

As soon as the threat had gone, he turned his attention to the woman cradled in his arms. The tremors he had felt in her body turned to full shakes as she relaxed into his arms. He settled her down against the wall, resuming his position by her side, and gently drew her into his arms. She drew in a long breath, letting it go slowly, and he felt the warm sigh move softly against his chest.

"Where did they take you this time?" he murmured softly. Vincent and Jackson had dragged her from the cell some twenty minutes before, but not before they had allowed themselves a few more punches for Doyle and more lewd handling of Rhiannon. It was clear to them that any resistance on her part only led to greater pain for Doyle, and any retaliation or back chat from him resulted in worse treatment for her. Doyle had counted the seconds carefully, pacing around their cell, awaiting her return, by his estimation about twenty minutes since they had dragged her away. He had taken the opportunity to examine the room, finding nothing but the tiled floors; nothing loose, no piping, nothing but the most basic of air bricks for ventilation. The steep open staircase leading to the door was narrow, lacking any handrail, barely any room for manouevre. There was nowhere to hide, no opportunity for surprise. His frustration only increased his own anger.

"Telephone call. To my Dad. To confirm I'm still alive." He felt the words against his skin more than heard them. "Tell you later." He looked down, seeing she had closed her eyes, and felt her breathing settle. He raised one hand to gently move a lock of her hair from her face, and saw her disturb at the slight movement, before settling again, her head pressed firmly against his chest, one hand curled softly against his side.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, and allowed her to rest.

***********************

 

Steve opened the door of the Capri and slid gracefully into the passenger seat, reaching across to squeeze Bodie's knee with a grin on his face.

“How be, lover? I got here as fast as I could,” he said.

Bodie allowed himself a slight smile, but the mixture of concern and lack of sleep showed on his face, and Steve instantly realised this wasn't the time for jokes. 

“How can I help?” said Steve, warm and genuine. 

“Exactly what kind of band are you in?” asked Bodie.

Steve shrugged, an eloquent gesture on a man who wouldn‘t look out of place striding down a catwalk. “Mixture of punk, glam rock and metal. A bit heavy for you I would have thought.”

“So you don't play covers of Jam songs then?”

Steve’s expression looked like Bodie had just suggested some bizarre sexual act involving a camel, a jar of Vaseline, and a set of cricket wickets. “Er no, not our style at all.” Amusement replaced the horror and Steve‘s eyes twinkled. “Why?” 

“We've heard from Rhiannon.” All merriment seemed to leech from the drummer, and Bodie saw again that tougher streak he’d sensed before in the pub. “She had a message for you. Said she‘d used her time to work out an arrangement for the Jam song you wanted to do. Does that make any sense to you?”

Steve's complexion paled. “You've heard from Rhia? Oh my God, how is she?”

“Alive - that’s all we can say. We don't know yet, but she was intent on getting that message to you.” The tension in Bodie’s voice was obvious, the man clearly desperate for something to work on. “Do you have any idea what it could mean?”

Steve shrugged. “All I do know, pet, is that she can't mean it to be as it sounds. We are not into Mod Revival or New Wave. We wouldn't play that in a million years. If she meant it as a message, or a clue, then maybe she's in a jam?”

Bodie winced. Steve gave an apologetic look, acknowledging the stupidity of his comment.

“Well, okay,” he continued. “Maybe The Jam is just a clue, although I know she hates them. Was spitting blacking when that song went to number one.” Steve’s voice trailed off as a look of understanding slowly dawned on his face. Bodie grasped his shoulder.

“What is it?” he urged.

Steve turned to him, grey eyes wide. “ ‘Going Underground’” he said. “She hated that song. But it’d fit. Fit better than ‘Eton Rifles’ anyway.”

“Underground?” Bodie frowned. “What do you mean? In a cellar, buried somewhere?”

Steve gave him a look of infinite patience. “No, love. The tube, the train system. The Underground. Use that pretty head of yours, eh?”

Bodie stopped slouching and sat upright, an absurd, childish, infectious grin splitting his face. “Shit, that’s got to be it.” His expression turned serious once more, but the light in his eyes was animated. 

He picked up his radio. “3-7 to Alpha. Urgent.”

“This is Alpha, 3-7. Report.” Cowley’s voice was even sharper than usual.

“Steve's sussed it, sir. The Jam. They had a record out, ‘Going Underground’. I think she’s telling us they’re holding them in a disused Underground station or tunnel.”

“Clever girl.” Even over the radio, Bodie could hear the admiration in Cowley’s voice for Rhiannon’s quick thinking. “And I think I know where.”

“How’s that, sir?” Bodie looked confused. How had they got from The Jam to being able to pinpoint exactly where in the huge maze of Underground tunnels they should start their search?

“Che Gelida Manina, Bodie. Your tiny hands are frozen." Bodie exchanged confused frowns with Steve over the handset. "It's opera, man. Covent Garden. Now get back to base, 3-7. We have to move on this tonight.”

Bodie returned the handset to its stand. “I have to get going, mate. You alright getting out here?"

Steve sat tight, arms folded firmly over his chest. “Not a chance in hell, mate. I'm coming with you.”

Bodie gave a sigh. “Look, you’re a civilian. If there’s trouble and you get hurt, my boss’ll have my balls in a sling.”

The look Steve turned on him was impressively intimidating. It would have worked on most people; on Bodie, all he could do was admire the style. “Look here, blue eyes. Your boss may have your balls in a sling, but I’ve got Rhia’s brother’s in my back pocket and have had for some time. For all intents and purposes, sweetheart, I’m her brother-in-law, and you really don’t want to know how nasty a spurned brother-in-law can get.”

Bodie couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing, holding up his hands in surrender when he saw the anger in Steve’s eyes. “You win, sunshine. You win. But you do exactly as I tell you. Deal?”

Steve nodded, his temper disappearing as quickly as it had flared. “Deal.”

Bodie started the engine and pulled off smoothly. “And if you don’t behave, I’ll tell your husband how you’ve been flirting with me all this time.”

Steve’s mouth fell open in horror. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

“I was only playing and you damn well know it!”

Bodie grinned. “Yeah, I know it. You know it.” He turned to give Steve a look, waggling his eyebrows mischievously. “But how long do you think it’ll take you to make it up to him, eh?”

Steve blushed, giving Bodie’s arm a playful punch. “You’re a bloody prick tease!”

*******************

Doyle woke to find himself lying stretched out on the floor, Rhiannon pressed closely against him. His arms had wrapped around her protectively in their sleep, her head nestled against his shoulder. The shirt he had given her did little to provide complete cover. Most of the buttons had been torn from it when they had bared his chest for the whip. Bodie would kill him, he thought with a wry grin. It was his shirt. Still, he gently arranged the shirt subtly so that, when she woke, she wouldn’t feel embarrassed. Or maybe, he thought, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed by his reaction to her.

It was utterly stupid, he knew. Circumstances had thrown them together; circumstances meant they had begun to rely on each other far more than strangers should. It was a complete mistake to think any kind of romance could bloom under these conditions. It was nothing but the need for human contact, even if the need ever did turn to life-affirming sex.

Another time, though. Well. He allowed himself to look at her dispassionately. Yes, he had to admit. At any other time, he would certainly have made a play for her. Right shape, right age range, breathing. Still warm, under 50 and probably would come across. Bodie’s words, dragged from his memory, brought a smile to his lips.

Her breath gently stirred the hairs on his chest, adding physical stimulation to his already fertile mental pictures. Not that there was any risk of him acting on any of his impulses. He was too battered for one thing, and she bore the marks of the tawse from the backs of her legs to the top of her shoulders, front and back. It would be a while before either of them would be fit for that kind of active service. And by that time, they’d either be far apart from each other, or dead.

She started to wake up, and he drew away slightly, stroking her arm gently and making comforting noises, trying to forestall the sudden shock of remembering where she was. She was a tough one, he had to admit. Far tougher than he would ever have thought possible, especially from the daughter of a peer of the realm. Maybe hanging out in biker bars had something to do with it, he thought with a private smile. Something about her certainly gave the impression of someone who knew how to handle herself anyway. But everyone had their breaking point, the limit of their pain threshold, and reaching it was only ever a matter of time.

Blue eyes opened suddenly, sleep quickly disappearing, and met his welcoming smile. “Not exactly the Ritz,” he said gently, putting slightly more distance between them, allowing her her personal space.

“Not quite,” she agreed, sitting up slowly and wincing as her bruises made themselves known. “No dessert trolley.” She stretched carefully, Doyle watching the play of smooth muscles, and seeing the winces as bruised flesh moved unwillingly. “How long have we been asleep?” she asked.

He gave a shrug. “Just over an hour, I reckon. Maybe two.”

“Not like them to leave us so long.”

He had realised that, but the knowledge caused him more concern than relief. “Where did they take you?” he asked again the question he had asked before they let themselves drift off.

She put a finger to her lips, listening carefully for any sign of movement outside the room. She snuggled closer to him, closing the gap he had put between them for the sake of decency, and brought her mouth closer to his ear. He closed his eyes; bruises or no, he wasn't an angel, and he was forming the firmly held belief that Rhiannon Moncrieffe could get a rise out of a saint. Out of the statue of a saint, if she really put her mind to it.

“I saw a sign, earlier on when they took me for the photo,” she whispered softly in his ear. “An arrow and Covent Garden.”

He tilted his head down to hers, their faces so close their breath mingled. “That would make sense,” he murmured. “Near to their HQ.” He gazed down at her face, so close her eyes seemed to fill his vision. "There's a partially disused line from Aldwych to Covent Garden. That would link their drop in centre with their main offices."

She nodded her agreement. “They took me to make a ‘phone call earlier. There was a clock that said twenty-five to six, but I've no idea if that's morning or afternoon.” So far, her score for observation skills were faultless. “I spoke to my Dad. I tried to sound tired out.” It wouldn't have been difficult, he thought, looking at the dark circles shadowing her eyes. “But I tried to give him some clues. I just don’t know if it worked.”

Doyle considered the situation again, assimilating this new information. “When they photographed you, were you still wearing this shirt?”

She frowned in confusion but gave a small nod. “And what were the clues you gave your father?” he continued.

She sighed and gave him a rueful look. “I can’t guarantee he’ll get it, but I couldn’t push it. I told him to tell Steve we’d practice a Jam track when I got out, and that my tiny hands were frozen.”

Doyle's memory flickered through his extensive and eclectic record collection. “Che Gelida Manina,” he said softly, a grin breaking across his face.

She nodded again. “Yep. And ‘Going Underground’. Steve knows I hate The Jam. I sulked for weeks when that got to number one.” She gave a distinctly girlish giggle.

Doyle brought his hands on either side of her head and pulled her into a kiss that was pure relief.

“You, sweetheart, are an underachiever,” he said, grinning down into her stunned expression. “Covent Garden Underground.” 

“Always assuming Dad gets it,” she said, reluctant to diminish his hopes so quickly.

He shook his head, his grin not fading in the slightest. “Oh no, love. See,” he reached across to flick the collar of the shirt she wore. “This shirt belongs to my mate in CI5, and Bodie is very protective of his clothing. He’d recognise this. That, with your clues, and they’re going to know that it’s all to do with the Children of the Way, and that I’m here with you.”

His grin was infectious. Her smile just as blinding as his own. “Then aren’t we the clever ones,” she whispered with a stifled giggle.

*************************

"Covent Garden, Bodie," Cowley continued. He had met the arrival of 3-7's new shadow with ill-concealed bad grace, and Bodie had been forced to witness the unlikely sight of George Cowley giving ground to a distinctly fey drummer who, it turned out, knew some distinctly impressive people. It was something he would never forget. It had taken all his self control to keep a straight face. He had pretended an intense and all-abiding interest in a square inch of wall just behind Cowley's right shoulder.

Now, they stood before an opened out map of the Underground, including all used and disused stations. Steve had been relegated to the outskirts of the conversation, as Jax, Murphy and Bodie followed Cowley's explanation.

"Here – there's an old partially disused line from Aldwych to Covent Garden." The callused finger traced a double line of dots showing the old system. "The drop-in centre Doyle visited is right next door to a service entrance. I wouldn't be surprised if some judicious tunnelling wouldn't link the cellar from one to the old underground system of the other."

"But they could be anywhere along there," Jax pointed out. He made a gesture encompassing the Covent Garden station and its environs. "It's only guesswork it's along there."

"Educated guesswork, man. Educated!" Cowley growled. "The main headquarters is almost directly opposite the entrance to Covent Garden. Now if Lady Moncrieffe saw something indicating Covent Garden in the Underground, it stands to reason it must be somewhere in that tunnel. It's the only logical explanation." 

Bodie had to admit, despite the vague nature of her clues, Rhiannon Moncrieffe appeared to have done quite well with what little she had. "She's a clever girl," he muttered. 

Cowley's head lifted quickly to catch his gaze. "Aye, it's not much."

The midnight blue eyes were firm. "It's enough. Those tunnels are all but forgotten about. And these people are very good at making people forget."

Cowley nodded. "Right. I want Jax and Murphy to go in from the old Aldwych entrance. Bodie – you start from Covent Garden. You meet," his finger jabbed the map, "somewhere in the middle." He looked up again to his agents. "There's no chance of messing around with this. We've no idea what they've got down there, or what they've done with the girl or Doyle. But this is a CI5 operation. There's no room for vendettas." The cold eyes settled on Bodie. "Am I understood, gentlemen?"

"Crystal, sir," Bodie replied, meeting the gaze without a flinch.

"Then what are you waiting for. Get on with it!"

***************************

 

Doyle joined in her muffled laughter when she'd finished her story of the time the band had turned up, the whole of London between them, as one half ended up at one pub called The Rose and Crown somewhere near Dagenham, while the other half ended up in the right Rose and Crown in Slough. And how she had managed to con her way through an acoustic version of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and Stairway to Heaven, before giving up and getting the landlord to teach her how to pull a pint of real ale. It wasn't the story as much as how she told it, the life and realism she brought to each character. She seemed irrepressible, as though addicted to life and all the experiences it could bring. 

A frown passed over his face. How could someone like that, someone who could be so comfortable whether at the Savoy or a small pub in Marlow, have felt the need to belong to something as obviously empty as the Children of the Way? Without thinking, he reached to stroke a stray strand of hair from her face. “What on earth got you mixed up in all this?” he breathed softly.

The question quelled the laughter in her eyes and he immediately regretted asking it. Still, he would be interested in the answer. She sat up, pulling her knees into her chest in her now typical defensive position. He mirrored her manouevre, moving alongside her so their shoulders met, leaning against each other for warmth and comfort, and bringing their faces close enough to touch, giving their conversation as much privacy as possible. They huddled together, one facing the wall, the other facing the stairs.

"My..." she gave a shrug, "boyfriend." She managed to make the word sound like a nickname, as though it should be in inverted commas. "Gary."

With a sudden lurch, Doyle realised he hadn't told her what had happened to Gary. His breath caught slightly, hesitating. She noticed his reaction with a slight crease of her brow.

"I'm sorry," Doyle stammered, his green eyes desperately trying to convey his sympathy.

A sudden look of understanding crossed her face and she gave a soft smile. "Overdose?"

He nodded. "Still alive, last I heard, but..." His voice trailed off. "It's only a matter of time."

He wondered again at her control. A fleeting sadness crossed her face, her eyes seeming to focus far away, to another place and time. When she spoke, there was a catch in her voice. "Would it be terribly wrong of me to say it's a relief?" she asked, her blue eyes searching his for some kind of condemnation.

He shook his head. "No. Tell me," he urged gently.

With a sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "He's the reason I'm here, of course," she said. Doyle hated the sense of betrayal he heard in her voice, even though he heard understanding there as well. She took a deep breath and raised her head, meeting his concerned gaze with a brief smile. "Don't feel bad, Ray. Told you I'm a sucker."

He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. "And I told you, you're not," he replied, putting all his conviction into his voice. "Love makes us do weird things," he said, wondering what she would make of the messes he'd got himself into over the years.

She smiled. "Sorry, Ray. I hate to break your romantic bubble there, but it wasn't love." She sniffed, and he knew she was determined not to cry. "Not for a long time, if ever."

"Go on then."

"I'd been seeing him for a couple of months. You wouldn't know to look at him now, but he was a good looking bloke. Strong, black hair, blue eyes you could swim in. Looked like a pin up for Mills and Boon," she smiled, letting humour colour her story as though hiding the pain behind it. Doyle was familiar with that tactic. "Anyway, it was fun for a couple of months. But then we had an accident. I -" he heard the subtle emphasis, the change in inflection. "I had an accident. Riding my bike home late one night, Gary on the back. I hit a patch of diesel and lost the front end of the bike. I managed to avoid getting dragged down the road with the bike, but Gary got thrown straight down. And everyone knows pillions always come off worse." She gave a wan smile. "He was in a coma for two weeks. His head hit the side of the kerb. Me, I was up and walking about, bit of road rash, couple of bruised ribs and a sprained wrist. Him," she shrugged. "Well, his pelvis healed quickly enough, so did his leg. And he came out of the coma all systems running fine."

"So what happened?"

"Pain, that's what," she said simply. "Pumped him full of morphine, and Gary got a taste for it. Even when the pain was finished, the pain of going without it was pain in itself."

"And you stuck by him?" It was more a statement than a question. She nodded.

"My fault, wasn't it. And if I ever forgot that, then he'd do something stupid to remind me. Forget to take his tablets; take too many tablets." Her head swayed from one side to another, as if indicating the switch from one attempt to the next. "And all the time, I was kicking myself inside for letting him take me for a ride like this, but still unable to stop it. It was my fault. My responsibility. I made him my punishment."

He wanted to reach out and take her in his arms again, do something, anything, to convince her that it wasn't her fault, that he'd had no right to abuse her trust in that way. But the slight frame was ramrod straight. She wouldn't appreciate the sympathy, he knew.

"This Children of the Way crap got him clean. They don't go for drugs, they say. It seemed to work. So I went along with it." A flash of guilt crossed her face. "I thought if he stuck with it then I'd be free." She gave a short laugh. "Plus he was nailing that Hope through the mattress every chance he got. Her or someone else." Doyle watched her expression, looking for any hurt, but saw only tired acceptance. "I was hoping I'd be able to walk away and leave him to it. No more guilt. No more responsibility" She shrugged again, a weak gesture of futility. "Anyway, Dad got hold of their accounts and I went through them. Turns out there's more money coming in here than goes out. More expenses hidden than you can shake a stick at. Oh, it's clever," she said quickly, her eyes wide with a kind of respect for the level of deceit she'd found. "You have to be a bloody genius to spot it, it's so well hidden."

Doyle couldn't hide his grin. He nudged her elbow with his own. "Good job you're a bloody genius then."

She grinned back at him, blushing at the compliment. "What? You think with all these good looks I can't have a brain as well?"

"Engagingly modest as well, I notice," Doyle said, laughter in his voice. "I know someone just like you."

"I doubt it. Broke the mould with me, mate."

"That's what he says as well." Doyle grinned. She reached over to tousle his hair playfully, about the only part of him that wasn't damaged.

"Anyway, they have expenses for properties that sound like safe houses, but when you find them, they're nothing more than sheds on allotments. Depreciation. Amortisation of intangible assets. Capital expenditure." She shook her head. "I don't know where the money's going, but I didn't like it. So I came down to the house at Covent Garden and dragged him out. Which is when I found out that he wasn't clean at all – they'd just been giving him the good stuff regularly enough, and in small enough doses, to make him able to function. Make him able to fool me, even."

"He didn't know who you are?" Doyle prompted gently, wondering how a thing like that could have remained hidden so long.

She gave him a shrewd look. "You mean, he didn't know what I am," she said, a note of sharpness in her voice. Her look softened. "No, I'm sorry. You're right. It's just I spent so many years going from one private girls' school to another, to University, to all these parties, where all anyone cared about was the listing you had in Burke's Peerage and whether they could marry you off to their chinless wonder of a son. After all that, let me tell you, these brainwashing gits here didn't stand a chance." She gave him a grin. "Past master at rebellion, I am. You wouldn't believe what I did to one headmistress' office when I was 13."

Doyle shared the grin. "Oh I think I'd believe it alright."

Her smile faded. "Yeah, well. I never bothered telling anyone. I certainly wasn't going to tell someone who just wanted to know how to get more money for his next fix. That would have been too easy."

"But he found out, and sold you out anyway," Doyle said gently.

"Yeah," she whispered. She gave a sigh. "So I suppose the first thing they did was jack him up with something pure and in enough quantity he couldn't resist. Never did have any self control, did Gary." 

Doyle nodded, and reached to pull her face closer to his, gently pressing his lips to her forehead. "I suppose it's a cliche to say he didn't deserve you?" He looked into her eyes, feeling her breath against his cheek.

"It's a cliche, but I don't mind," she whispered. "Anyway, I'll consider myself dumped." She gave a wry grin.

Doyle's head quirked to one side, examining the pale face he held in his hands. Blue eyes met his, held them with a direct look. His gaze travelled slowly over her face, before he wiped an imaginary mark from the corner of her mouth, his thumb gently grazing the soft, velvety lips. 

A crease marked between her eyes as she gave a frown, but her eyes were laughing. She smiled softly. "Mr. Doyle," she said, mock horror in her voice. "Are you coming on to me?"

He took his hands from her face and grinned easily. "Well, you're the one who told me to get me top off."

 

********************

 

"What time is the expected drop?" Sharpe's voice, the thrill of intimacy, caused prickles down her spine, tiny hairs standing on end, waiting for the next caressing sound.

"Noon. Jackson will then dump the girl somewhere on the outskirts of Watford two hours later. There will be sufficient evidence, should it be required, to divert attention where it is most deserved." She related the plan efficiently, no indication of the shudders she felt in her body in her calm voice.

"Good. And the next shipment?"

It was no good. His sentences too short, too clipped. She felt a deep frustration build in her stomach. "Arrangements are in place. We merely await your orders."

"Good." The word was a silken purr that almost shredded the remains of Grey's self control. "When the necessary agencies are tied up dealing with a recovered kidnap victim, and dealing with the dead body of an ex-policeman, we should have the necessary diversion to allow the one shipment through and arrange delivery of the goods to the necessary parties." Drugs for guns. With the police and special services busy with a tidy up operation. And an extra £200,000 bonus in the coffers. It would be a lucrative operation, all over in less than 24 hours.

"The body will be found with the girl. It should provide the necessary distraction."

Grey heard a sigh against the telephone, felt it as though the breath stirred her ear. "You have done well, Miss Grey." His words, combined with the ghost of the sigh she could almost feel, were benediction.

She replaced the handset with her customary reluctance, her eyes closed as she calmed the beating of her heart. She was allowing herself a smile of satisfaction when Vincent appeared in the room, entering as he knocked.

She turned sharply, ready to lash out with her tongue at this intrusion, when she saw the edge of tension in Vincent's fixed expression.

"What is it?" she demanded

"Intruders, ma'am. From the Aldwych entrance."

"What manpower do we have?"

"Me, Jackson, six others. All other security were sent off to deal with the arrangements for delivery."

Hence his tension, she realised. They had not anticipated any intrusion into this area of their operation, so had diverted the majority of their manpower to the docks, to clear the way ready for tomorrow night's transaction. Still, she had Jackon and Vincent; they were worth three men apiece.

"You take three and deal with Aldwych. Leave the others to guard here with Jackson." The more contact Jackson had with the interfering policeman and the girl, the better. Locard's Principle – every contact leaves an exchange. No need to confuse those exchanges with other traces of others.

Vincent turned to obey immediately, tapping three men on the shoulders as he passed them in the corridor. Without needing instructions, they fell in behind him. Grey remained in the office, considering this complication. Jackson watched the action with a calculating light in his eyes.

 

***********************

 

Bodie brought the Capri to a screaming halt at the side of the road across from the entrance of Covent Garden tube station. It was approaching midnight; barely twelve hours before the anticipated money drop to pay for Rhiannon's freedom. And what would that freedom cost Doyle, he wondered briefly, before dismissing the dark thought. He leant across Steve's lap to fumble about in the glove box, eventually finding what he needed - an A-Z with a tube map in the back.

"Right," said Bodie, thumbing his way through the book. "What do you know about the tube system?"

"Well I've lugged my drum kit from one end of London to the other a hundred times. What do you want to know?"

"What's so special about Covent Garden?"

"It's a real pain, there's no escalators so you have to use a lift which looks like it came out of the Ark. Cus the lift has broken down, it's closed at the moment."

Bodie heaved a sigh of exasperation. "No good anyway. Lift would have given us away." The dark eyes narrowed in though. "Is there any other access to the platform level?"

"Yes, if the lift is broken, and - oh my God that did happen to me once. You have to walk down a stone spiral staircase. I can remember every single one of those 193 steps very clearly, as I was dragging half of my drum kit at the time."

Bodie smiled at him. "You're a little wonder, you know that? What else can you tell me?"

"Well, pet," Steve leaned forward towards him, lowering his voice. "The station is haunted by some old actor called William Terriss who was stabbed to death nearby. I love all that kind of thing, don't you? Whenever I come here I always look for his ghost, but never seem to see him."

Bodie snorted in derision. "A ghost? Oh come on mate, get real!"

"You wait till you see it down there," said Steve with indignation. "It's a really spooky place! There's lots of disused platforms and rooms that were used during the war. Not a place you want to hang about late at night waiting for the last train, I can tell you."

Bodie grabbed the car radio. "3-7 to Alpha."

"Come in 3-7."

"I'm outside the tube station now."

"Right, 3-7. 6-2 is in position"

"Access will have to be via the main entrance and the staircase. Lift is out of order."

"Good. No unnecessary civilians. Other than your new shadow." Bodie could hear the teasing in the old man's voice and suppressed a groan. He'd never live this down. "If Mr. Dwyer can't keep up, leave him behind, and I don't care who he sets on me." Bodie stifled a grin while Steve had the good grace to look sheepish. "By the way, Bodie." There was a sudden hesitancy in the old man's voice.

"Sir?"

"Gary Daniels. We've just had news – he's died."

Bodie looked at Steve over the handset, noticing the muscle twitching in the firmly clenched jaw. "Understood. 3-7 out."

He put the handset back on its rest. "You okay?"

Steve turned to him, his grey eyes clear. "Never liked the prick anyway," he said, but Bodie could hear the catch in his voice. Steve's expression softened. "Still, no-one deserves that."

Bodie started to get out of the car. "Oh I dunno, mate. Some people do."

Steve went to open the passenger door, but Bodie sat back in his seat and pulled Steve back into the car. Bodie looked straight at him, intently. "We've had this conversation before, mate. You can't come with me. I don't care if you're screwing the PM's son."

Steve managed to look disgusted but stubborn. "I'm not letting you go in there alone. I promise I'll do as I'm told and if you want me to go back at any time I will. Please?"

Bodie sighed, knowing this was one fight he wasn't going to win, and secretly welcoming the company. "You heard the boss. If you can't keep up, you get left behind. Alright?" Bodie watched the determined nod shake the soft blonde hair. He grinned. "Right, come on."

They walked across the road. Bodie grabbed the large chain that held the metal gate closed across the entrance to the station. He searched his jacket pocket until he found the lock picks and concentrated on getting the padlock undone. "Keep an eye out, mate," he said.

Excited, but equally worried that he didn't have a clue what he was meant to do, Steve tried to look nonchalant as he scanned the area about them. He needn't have worried. It was deserted at this time of night, all the tourists and shoppers gone home or moved on to more fashionable areas of London.

"It's like being in a Bond film," the hushed Welsh voice whispered in awe.

With a satisfying clunk the padlock opened and Bodie pushed the gate open wide enough for them to squeeze through.

Bodie turned to look at him. "No disrespect, mate, but you're not my idea of a Bond Girl."

They looked into the beckoning gloom. Just him, and Steve – who might be a dab hand with a drum stick, he thought ruefully, but what would happen when the bullets started to fly? But there wasn't time for that now. Doyle and the girl might be in serious trouble down there. He smiled reassuringly at Steve. "C'mon then, 007."

It was pitch black inside and Bodie took out his pin light, flashing it about as he tried to locate the start of the stairway. They walked past the ticket booth and started on the long journey down, trying to keep sound to a minimum to avoid an echo. Steve was right - 193 steps was a long way down. In the back of his mind Bodie counted the steps as they descended, to give himself an indication of when they were near the bottom. With an estimated ten steps remaining, Bodie slowed his pace, Steve following suit behind him. Silently, they came down the last few steps. Bodie shone the pin light carefully. The main platform was too obvious; it would have to be somewhere else. 

"Do you know where the disused part of the station is?" he whispered to Steve. 

Steve nodded but in the pitch dark Bodie didn't see him. There was only one way to do this; Steve took Bodie's hand. In a flash, Bodie pulled his hand away again. "What are you playing at?" he hissed. 

"Look, lover," said Steve, an edge of steel in his voice. "I can't see you and you can't see me. I know where to go but I don't want to lose you. So don't be a prick." He took Bodie's hand again and led him along the platform and down a tunnel marked 'No Entry'. Steve tried to remember where he went that time he was ghost hunting. He turned down another passageway, and another, and then they came to an area full of equipment, old signs, warning cones, and tools. There was a corridor ahead of them with several doors leading off. They stood silently for a second. 

"This is it," whispered Steve. "This is where people worked during air raids in the war. I don't think there's anything else past this."

"Right," whispered Bodie. "End of the line for you, mate. This is no place for a nice boy like you."

"No way," hissed Steve. 

"You said you'd do as I said!" Bodie whispered through clenched teeth.

"I lied! I'm not leaving you." 

"Oh shit," Bodie breathed, pulling his gun out of his shoulder holster. "This isn't bloody Zulu, y'know. You can't go in there singing Men of fucking Harlech."

Before Bodie had time to argue any more, one of the doors down the dimly lit corridor opened. He pushed Steve roughly back to the corner they had just walked around and pressed himself flat against the wall in the darkness.

A man's voice came from down the corridor. "Don't be too long, Simmons. We're gonna fuck around with that annoying twat and the bird in a minute."

"I'm just having a fag, I'll be two minutes."

"Well, I've got one last memory to send him on his way. And no Vincent or Grey to stop me." The voice disappeared into the darkness. 

Bodie had an intuitive sinking feeling that the 'annoying twat' was Doyle. The ‘bird’ was obviously Rhiannon.

The man called Simmons stood at the edge of the disused platform, smoking his cigarette, looking out into the darkness of the empty track. Bodie smelt the air as he silently crept up behind him, noting the strong scent of cannabis. Good, he thought to himself, he should be nice and relaxed then. Bodie opened the blade of his flick-knife and approached the hulking figure in the shadows. In one swift movement, he put a hand over Simmons' mouth, the other sliding the sharp blade through the vertebrae, severing his spinal cord. Grace borne of practice made the scene a macabre dance. As the big man folded silently, Bodie carried his weight in a grotesque parody of an embrace as he lowered him to the floor. When the sound would no longer give them away, he kicked the body forward to land with a muffled thud on the track below. Bodie viewed his handiwork with a dispassionate satisfaction, then heard a gasp and a light sob behind him. He had forgotten his audience. He turned and walked back to Steve, who now looked at him in absolute horror.

Bodie grabbed his upper arms, looking at him intently. "I'm sorry you had to see that, mate, but you've got to pull yourself together. It's gonna get worse before it gets better." Steve tore his eyes away from where the body had fallen and focused on the dark eyed killer in front of him. "Now, will you please go back to the car and radio Cowley that we've found the nest? I need you to do that for me. Do you understand?'

Shaking, Steve nodded, finally accepting that this was out of his league. "Be - be careful Bodie. Please?" he stammered. 

"Go on. I'll be fine." Bodie gave him a reassuring smile, physically turning him around by the shoulders and slipping the pin light into his hand. He gave him a gentle push in the small of his back to get him moving. He watched the slight figure pad softly away back the way they had come, then he turned back towards the corridor from where Simmons had appeared.

"Right. Time to find the annoying twat," he muttered to himself.

 

**********************

 

"Jax." The sound was barely audible, but the agent heard the call. He caught the eye of the tall, black-haired man, read the signs in his quick hand signals. He nodded his understanding.

They had company.

They moved, silent as shadows, through the darkness, catching the sound of the approaching team. They were being quiet, but they lacked the honed skills of the experienced CI-5 men.

Settled in their positions, Jax signalled for Murphy to wait. They had found an advantageous spot; it would be foolish to relinquish it without good reason. So they waited for the prey to come to them.

The three men were hardly rank amateurs. They made their way down the darkened tunnels with practiced ease. Vincent held back, noticing with approval their caution, wincing with regret at their less than perfect movements. He had to hope that they were only up against standard Metropolitan Police, or just some tramps seeking shelter for the evening. Any professionals would recognise the sound of men on the prowl.

His instincts reacted to the darker shadows before his mind had a chance to interpret what he'd seen. By that time, the man in front had made his first cry, loosed his first and last bullet, before a flash in the darkness brought a bullet to silence him forever.

Vincent pressed hard against the wall, assessing the situation dispassionately as the tempo of the shoot-out increased. Two, possibly three, but well trained and in impregnable positions. He hissed his anger, bad reconnaissance, bad intelligence; something had gone very badly wrong. Bad, bad, bad. He weighed his options with the practiced ease of a professional. The two remaining men were holding down the intruders, but he realised they were outclassed. Pointless to waste his ammunition here when better positions could be found. His only option was retreat, back to Jackson and the others, back where the position was far more easily defended. And back where they had the bargaining chips of the girl and the copper.

Like a shadow, he made his way back the way they had come, leaving the two men to their fate without a second thought.

 

*****************************

Doyle edged away from the wall, putting himself between Rhiannon and the massive figure of Jackson, who had come lumbering down the steps with an unholy grin on his face. In one hand, he held a revolver; .357 Magnum, Doyle recognised. Hellish stopping power; six shots.

Jackson levelled the gun at Doyle, then lowered it slowly to point at his knees.

“Ever seen a bloke knee-capped, love?” he rumbled. “Nasty business. No going back from that. Lucky if they keep the leg. So you be a good girl and come over here to me.”

Doyle felt the movement by his side, and reached out and grabbed her arm before she could move further. “Don’t,” he said, his voice tight with anger.

She placed her hand over his, tugging at his arm gently until he turned to face her. “Ray.” He looked into her eyes, knowing she wasn’t going to let him stop her. She’d put her life on hold for two years for a man she didn’t even love, simply because she felt it was her responsibility. What would she do for a man she’d only just met? What would she do for him? 

Before he could speak, Jackson had grabbed her other arm, dragging her out of Doyle’s grasp. Doyle lashed out, barely missing the man’s gun hand. Jackson’s eyes flashed angrily.

“Naughty boy,” he hissed. Doyle braced himself for anything, bullet or punch. What he didn’t expect was the vicious backhand Jackson laid across Rhiannon’s face, throwing her into the corner.

The gun raised unerringly, halting Doyle in his tracks. “You bastard,” he snarled.

“Thought you’d have learned, Newton’s Third Law of Physics.” The hulking bully grinned as though pleased to show he had some inkling of the finer things in life. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. You hurt me, I hurt her. She doesn’t do as she’s told, I hurt you. Equal, and opposite.” He laughed to himself, before grabbing Doyle by the throat and throwing him against the back wall, following the action through to pin him there against the wall. 

There was any number of ways he could get out of this, Doyle knew. Macklin would be hurling insults. But he could still see Rhiannon in the corner of the room, picking herself up, and he knew - he knew from his years as a copper, and the sickening things he’d seen since joining CI5 - exactly what Jackson could do to her and still keep her alive and ready to trade for the ransom.

“Let him go.” Rhiannon’s voice was closer. She stood behind Jackson, her eyes large as they saw the pain in Doyle’s face. “Just let him go. You know I don’t want you to hurt him.”

The vice like grip slackened and Doyle allowed himself to slide gracelessly to the floor, gasping air. Jackson stepped away from him as though he no longer mattered.

“Why should I care what you want?” he growled.

Doyle saw the shirt Rhiannon was wearing lay a little more open than before, the swell of full breasts barely concealed by the fabric. He saw the way Jackson’s eyes flitted to the sensuous curves, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as his eyes darkened. Rhiannon did not back away from him, although Doyle could see by the fast pulse at her neck that she was terrified of the unbridled lust apparent in the cold, shark-like eyes.

Doyle felt something beneath his hand, something soft. Not allowing his gaze to move, he identified it as his torn t-shirt, used by both of them to wipe the worst of the blood and grime from them after their beatings. He took a firm grip of it and watched.

Rhiannon’s breath was quick. “You want me to fight you off, make it more interesting? Fine - you’ve got it. You want me to lie back and make it easy for you? Whatever you like, mate. But don’t forget it’s £200,000 your boss wants for me, and you can’t damage me that much. But you and me - we make a deal. You leave Doyle alone, and I’ll do whatever you like. Rough or smooth, hard or soft. Your choice.”

“Don’t you dare,” Doyle breathed, terrified at the deal with the devil she was making.

“Not your choice, Doyle. Mine. My body. My choice.” He could see the tremors running through her body, see how her fear fed the lust burning in Jackson. “So that’s the deal - my body for his. Or don’t you like women?” She threw the last at him with a curl of her lip.

Jackson drew his hand back and let fly again, sending her sprawling across the room once more. Defiant, she pushed herself back up on her elbows, drawing her hand across her mouth to wipe away the blood. “Well?” she demanded, unable to stop the break in her voice

“Anything?” Jackson’s leer was revolting.

“Anything,” she said, nodding her head once, rising slowly to her feet.

Before she could quite get her balance, Jackson grabbed for her, filling his hands with her dark hair and forcing her head back. He drew his tongue from her collarbone to her ear, slowly, seeing the revulsion in her face. She tried to switch off, to not feel what he was doing, but he pulled her hair harder, pushed her against the wall face first and pressed his body against hers.

“Oh no, darling. You’re going to know what’s happening. All of it. And you’re gonna know exactly who’s doing it to you,” he growled in her ear, forcing her legs apart with his own. A whimper escaped her lips as she felt him starting to fumble with his belt and trouser fastenings, the sound urging him on.

Then, suddenly, the weight was torn off her back. She hesitated, not knowing if it was another of his tricks, a way to catch her off guard. A choking sound made her turn quickly, desperate to know what was happening. 

Jackson was bowed backwards, the tattered remains of Doyle’s t-shirt wrapped around his throat. Doyle, his face twisted in a feral, evil look of hatred, had a firm grasp of the material, dragging Jackson back, using his own weight combined with the terrible fury of Doyle’s anger to choke him. The podgy, pig-like face was turning purple, his eyes bulging in their sockets as he scrabbled to try to grab at the wiry figure who held him in an iron grasp. The struggles faded, the eyes dimming, until he hung limply in Doyle’s grasp. Doyle threw him to the floor, not relinquishing the tight grip on his throat, not until he was sure there was no heart beat. Once satisfied, he stood up straight and turned back to Rhiannon.

She was breathing hard, blue eyes flicking from the dead body to the live Doyle. He wondered what she would think of him now; no better than the man he’d killed? Wasn’t that the usual drill?

He stepped carefully towards her, not knowing what to expect. His relief when she grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug was sufficient for him to ignore the pain it caused to his battered ribs. 

He pulled away slightly to look down into her face. “Don’t you ever - ever - make a deal like that again, do you understand?” He tried to convey the horror he had felt, hearing her say those words, make that promise. He stroked her cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

“Well,” she said, still breathing hard. “It’s not like I’d got anything else to bargain with, is it?”

He pulled her into his arms again. “At least it distracted him enough to let me get to him,” he said, trying to bring an end to the horror, make her forget what she had almost had to do. He felt her breathing slow down, the trembling gradually stop. Only then did he pull away from her.

“Ready for the next bit?” he asked gently.

The blue eyes that met his were steady, the same look of determination and intelligence that he’d become accustomed to over the last however many days and hours.

He gave her a reassuring smile, turning back to Jackson to divest him of the .357 and check for any spare ammunition. Rhiannon, he noticed, viewed the corpse with a kind of dispassionate interest, as though she had already come to terms with the necessity of Doyle’s actions, regardless of the brutality.

The sudden retort of distant gun fire brought his head up sharply. She drew closer to him, a frown of confusion on her face as she tried to place the unfamiliar noises. He turned to her, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her close to press his lips to hers quickly. He grinned down into her startled face.

“That's the cavalry,” he announced, releasing her waist to catch hold of her hand. He led her to the foot of the stairs, Doyle’s every instinct on edge for any sign of threat. Cautiously, they made their way up the steps.

*********************

With his Browning comfortably in his hand, Bodie padded silently along the platform, careful to keep his back to the wall as he went, slowing only when he reached the more well-lit areas.. The corridor ahead of him seemed inviting; so many doors - which one to choose? It appeared to be the hub of the operations. He glanced quickly into half open door ways, finding one room filled with crates and the familiar smell of gun oil and gunpowder. He moved further down the corrider, a grim smile on his face.

He heard a distant voice and concentrated on trying to locate it. The third door was ajar and sure enough, there was somebody inside holding a conversation. A woman's voice, carefully modulated, precise tones. The 'battleaxe' herself? He pushed himself back behind a filing cabinet that was stood outside, listening intently.

A movement, a shadow. The woman had company. Two men, he saw by their shadows.

“Where is Jackson?”

The two men exchanged glances, unwilling to answer the direct question. Their very attitude gave it away.

“Ah.” A gentle sigh, but Bodie heard a wealth of meaning behind it. “Decided to avail himself of the Lady Moncrieffe's charms before it's too late?” She left the question hanging.

Any reply was silenced by the sound of gun fire, echoing eerily down the tunnels. Tunnels made noises do strange things; things that sounded distant could be up close and personal, while something far away could whisper directly in the ear.

He flattened himself against the cabinets, waiting to hear the orders. “You two – go and check with Vincent. I'll go and deal with Jackson myself.”

The two heavies ran past him, invisible in the shadows. He waited until he saw the small woman leave the office, noting the direction she took for future reference. Then he followed the other two men, ready to lend assistance to Murphy and Jax.

 

*************************

Murphy and Jax paused, waiting for the returning fire. When none came, they exchanged wordless communication, before Jax ducked out to provide cover as Murphy moved on. 

“Jax.” Murphy's voice echoed down the corridor. Jax ducked out again to see the tall man standing, gun held by his side. He jogged quickly to join him, finding their two opponents stretched out on the cold floor, blood already cooling.

“Dead?” Jax noted the blood on Murphy's cheek from where a bullet had thrown up a sliver of brick which had sliced across the man's face.

“That, or a damn good impersonation,” Murphy replied quickly. He looked further up the tunnel. “Come on. Else Bodie'll get all the fun.”

Jax grinned in the darkness and followed the loping figure of Murphy. If there was glory to be had out of this escapade, they'd make sure they had their share of it, if only to stop Bodie's relentless story-telling in the mess room later.

********************************

 

Vincent heard the gun fire stop just as the two men Grey had sent came running towards him. 

"Back," he gestured quickly, trying to get them to a better position. They crouched behind a wall.

"Where's Jackson?" he demanded.

"With the girl," came the response. "Grey went to sort it out."

Vincent nodded curtly, turning to give orders to the man behind, only to see his head explode in a sudden blossom of blood and brain matter as Bodie's bullet hit home.

"Shit," he hissed, as the body hit the floor, blood pouring from the remains of the man's head. Vincent reacted quickly, shoving the remaining guard to watch for the approach from the Aldwych tunnel as he turned his attention to the new assault from behind.

He ducked and rolled, noting the sound of bullets firing around him, feeling the burning sear as one bit through his shirt to leave a bloody trail in its wake. He noted the direction the bullets were coming from, and with a certain grim admiration, the way the marksman did not allow himself to be seen. This wasn't any normal gun fight, he knew. This one meant business.

A sharp cry behind him notified him that the sole remaining guard was wounded; he could hear the man cursing loudly in pain before returning fire. He reloaded, his final clip, and calculated his chances of getting out here alive. He didn't like the result.

He turned to resume fire, trying to hold his mysterious foe at bay, only to find himself looking straight down the barrel of a Browning. Bodie had used the brief, barest, second it had taken him to reload to cover the distance between them. His teeth bared in an unholy grin, acknowledging the superior skill. Behind him, he heard the staccato of returning fire, and knew without having to see that one if not more of those bullets had found their target, at the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

And then there was one.

He moved quickly, using all his finely honed skills, dropping his Beretta and pulling out a knife in a smooth move that would have been almost impossible unless you were expecting it and knew what to look for.

Bodie was, and he did.

He sidestepped the glide of the knife smoothly, taking hold of Vincent's wrist with his left hand and drawing the man out even as he raised his gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger.

The Browning barked twice. Vincent fell to his knees before sprawling to the floor, his face obliterated by the exit wounds of two 9mm bullets.

Jax and Murphy approached cautiously, wary of any other guards. Bodie shook his head, and they relaxed.

"So – you found the girl and Doyle?" 

Bodie checked his weapon instinctively and jerked his head behind him. "No." He turned a smug grin on the two agents. "But I know where he is. Come on." He led the way back to the main offices, checking each doorway and corridor to be on the safe side along the way.

 

******************************

Grey paused at the door to Rhia and Doyle's cell, listening to the gun fire behind her. She lacked the experience to tell one shot from another, but she could trust Vincent to have it in hand. The cold, professional mercenary had never failed her before. She wondered why Jackson had not responded to the sounds of the weapons. 

"Jackson? Are you in there?"

At the sound of Grey's voice, Doyle froze at the top of the stairs. He pulled Rhiannon behind him, shielding her between him and the door.

Outside, Grey frowned. Screams, she would have expected. Groans, grunts, moans – certainly. But silence? Not while Jackson still nursed an erection whenever more of Rhiannon's blood was spilt, or when that scrap of shirt she clung to exposed breast or buttock. Grey didn't trust silence. She reached into her side pocket and produced her gun, a blued finished Walther PPK. She inched the door to the cell open a fraction, trying to see what lay inside. She stifled a gasp as she recognised the bulky form of Jackson lying on the floor, his jaw slack and eyes open in death. Before she could take in any more details, she felt an iron grip on her wrist, dragging her into the room.

Doyle grabbed the emerging hand, making her drop the PPK to the floor, and yanked the woman into the room. The gun fired once, the bullet ricocheting off the step to slice a line across Doyle's calf. She faltered on the step, her usually cold brown eyes suddenly alive and desperate. She started to fall, Doyle trying to hold on for a couple of steps, almost letting her drag him down with her, before his grip slipped and she fell all the way to the bottom. He followed another couple of steps down after her, but the strange angle of her neck told him that help was unnecessary. 

A noise behind him made him spin on his heel, reaching for the .357. There, silhouetted in the doorway, stood the reassuring figure of Bodie, Browning in hand. Relief mingled with shock as he saw Rhiannon had grabbed Grey's fallen PPK and held it unwaveringly at Bodie. 

“Rhia!” Doyle’s voice did not draw her attention away from Bodie. For his part, Bodie was impressed with the steady grip, and the determination in her blue eyes. He held his gun in the air, trying to radiate reassurance in his relaxed stance.

“Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe, I assume?” Bodie said, in his most cultured tones. Doyle came to stand beside her, reaching gently to take the gun out of her hand. She seemed to relax as soon as the weapon was taken away.

“He’s CI5,” Doyle explained with a grin. She turned to look from one to the other.

“Don’t any of you have names?” she said, using her pretended dismay to hide her embarrassment.

“What have you done to my shirt?” Bodie’s voice was shrill with horror.

Doyle slid an arm around Rhiannon’s waist, allowing relief to flow through his tired muscles. “Aw, come off it, mate. Looks better on her than it ever did on you.”

Bodie took one of Rhiannon’s hands and escorted her out of the cell, leaving Doyle to limp along behind. He took off his jacket and slid it gently over her shoulders. “Well, you’ve got the shirt. May as well complete the ensemble,” he said with a winning smile as she shrugged herself into the jacket gratefully. A dozen or so agents could be seen searching each room, appearing with Armalite rifles, bags of white powder, and grenades. Cowley would be dancing a jig. Murphy approached, a pale faced Steve in tow.

Bodie nodded towards the blond haired drummer. “See you talked your way back in again.”

Murphy gave a wry grin. “Bugger wouldn’t shut up, would he? Easier to give in.”

Bodie nodded his agreement. “Don’t I know it.” He watched as Steve made straight for Rhiannon, pulling her into his warm embrace. 

Doyle suddenly felt very alone, very surplus to requirements. He caught the look in Bodie’s eyes and the subtle movement of his head. Yeah, time to report. But he couldn’t resist a final look behind him to see the tousled head of Rhiannon held gently against Steve’s shoulder. Her eyes met his, and he knew there was something in there that could never be said.

With a wry smile, he allowed Bodie to drag him out of the station, and accepted his help in climbing the 193 steps back up to the surface. The pain in his bullet-streaked leg was a reminder, but he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to remember.

 

***********************

Bodie opened the passenger door of the Capri and Doyle slumped down on the seat. Leaving the door open for a minute, Bodie disappeared to the boot and started rummaging about. Finally finding what he was looking for, he slammed the boot shut and returned to Doyle, handing him a white t-shirt. Doyle looked up at him, a bit glassy eyed and dazed.

“It's clean,” said Bodie. “Got it back from the laundry last week and haven't had a chance to take it home yet.” Bodie slammed the passenger door shut and walked around to his own side of the car and got in. 

Doyle eased himself into the t-shirt as carefully as the confined space of the car allowed. Finally he looked up at Bodie with a wry smile. “Thanks, mate,” he said. 

“Although judging by the state of you, it's not going to stay clean for long. What the hell did they do to you?”

A grim look crossed his partner's face. “You name it, they did it,” said Doyle, sinking back in the seat.

Bodie started the engine, determined to leave this line of questioning until later. “Right. St. Thomas' close enough for you?”

“What?” A couple of days of torture wasn’t enough to curb Doyle’s irascible temper, Bodie knew.

“Hospital, sunshine. You need looking at. They'll take the girl there anyway, it being the closest A&E.”

“In case you've forgotten, we're still on a case,” said Doyle. “We've got to get to Sharpe before he does a runner, which won't be long.”

Bodie hesitated. “And if he does do a runner, how are you going to keep up? Just take a look at yourself.”

The warning light in the green eyes was enough for Bodie to know Doyle wasn’t going to let this go. “Just get on with it, Bodie. The sooner we get there, the sooner I get to hospital, right?”

Bodie shrugged and sped the Capri up the road. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle saw Rhiannon and Steve being helped into the ambulance. He tried not to look. 

“You alright, mate?” asked Bodie, risking a quick look at him.

“I'll survive,” said Doyle, suddenly realising how miserable he must sound. “Honest Bodie,” he added, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his words. “I'm okay. Thanks for coming after us.”

Bodie continued in silence for a while, and Doyle knew he hadn’t quite managed to convince his partner.

“By the way,” he said, allowing his voice to sound as weary as he felt.

He caught Bodie’s frown in the corner of his eyes. “What?”

“Sorry about your shirt.” He couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.

That was enough for Bodie, who just grinned and put his foot down.

 

**************************

 

**Saturday – June 18th – early hours**

Bodie’s constant banging on the large oak door was guaranteed to wake anyone in the household. It would have woken the residents of a graveyard, if Doyle was any judge.

The woman who answered - maid, housekeeper, secretary, girlfriend, wife, or one-night stand - no-one particularly knew or cared - was scarcely enough to keep CI5 outside any longer. Leaving her speechless at the door, the three men entered the mansion. With a gentle smile, Bodie took the door from her unresisting grasp and closed it behind them. 

“Born in a barn, were we?” he said with a cheeky grin.

Cowley strode through the wood lined halls, his usual limp the only sign that the implacable man was anything less than utterly bullet-proof. 

The woman looked at the strange men who had demanded entrance, taking in their arrogance, the appraising look of the younger, smartly dressed man who had an irresistible smile on his perfect features; the hard, weary face of the older man, eyes sharper than a hawks; and the casual, almost scruffy man with cuts and bruises on a face that looked half demon, half angel. He seemed oblivious to the blood that seeped through the white t-shirt he wore.

"Is Dr. Sharpe home?" The older gentleman had a Scottish accent, his voice gentle but she could sense an edge underneath it, something that made this man very dangerous indeed. Possibly more dangerous than the two men who flanked him.

“Yes, but…” the rest of her words were ignored, the three men looking around as though deciding where to start their search. “He cannot be disturbed!” she finished.

The Scot turned to face her, a dour light in his eyes. “Oh, I think you’ll find your Dr. Sharpe can be very disturbed. Very disturbed indeed.”

“I do hope there’s an explanation for this.” The voice, the very epitome of shaken but reserved innocence, no histrionic displays of affronted honour, addressed them from the top of the sweeping staircase.

Cowley’s step slowed. “You’re under arrest, Dr. Sharpe,” he said slowly, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs.

Again the slightly puzzled expression, as though the very idea that anyone could think him capable of any wrong doing was so alien that he could never understand such a concept. “I really don’t know….” he started, belting the blue silk dressing gown around him as he slowly descended.

“Oh, but you do,” Cowley’s voice was soft, like a blade being unsheathed. “And so do we. We know about the money laundering, the Swiss bank accounts, the transfers to Ugandan accounts and back through again. We know about the fraudulent accounts. We know about the drug running, the gun supplying. The kidnap of Lady Rhiannon Moncrieffe, and the capture of an agent sent to protect her. And we know about the treatment they received at the hands of your agents.” The catalogue of charges had given Sharpe enough time to reach the reception hall, where he stood, taller than Cowley, but somehow smaller. Less.

Sharpe’s eyes flicked to the bruised and cut face of Doyle, his bluster slipping slightly. “This is all a terrible mistake. I assure you.” He gestured to a nearby table, where a decanter of whisky and some crystal glasses sat waiting to welcome guests. He moved to pour a drink.

“No mistake, Dr. Sharpe. Not by me at any rate.”

A quick gesture brought Doyle behind Sharpe, cuffs appearing in his hands with the practiced ease of experience. Panic began to edge into Sharpe’s voice. “This is a mistake. It’ll destroy your careers. All of you. I’ll bring the whole…..”

“Ooops.” Doyle grinned, all innocence. “Must have slipped.” He had taken out one of Sharpe’s legs with a swift kick, forcing the man to drop headfirst onto the hall table, and into unconsciousness. The handcuffs shut with a click.

Cowley pursed his lips. “And for that, you’ll have to carry him out of here.” He turned on his heel and limped away, leaving Bodie to smirk at the picture of innocence still plastered on Doyle’s face. Shaking his head, he went to the other side of Sharpe, raising his head off the table and shaking him slightly.

“C’mon, sonny. You’ve a lot of explaining to do.” Sharpe came to groggily as Bodie brought him to his feet and started to frogmarch him from the house. “Best get you somewhere safe, where you can’t hurt yourself anymore,” he said, with a backward glance at Doyle.

Doyle grinned and followed on behind, tipping an imaginary hat to the shocked woman as they left.

***********************

Once Doyle was satisfied Sharpe was safely stowed away under the gimlet stare of George Cowley, he allowed Bodie to drive him to the nearest hospital. He ignored Bodie’s question about whether he wanted to check on Rhiannon, simply shrugging and saying she’d probably had more than enough of him in the time they’d spent at the tender mercies of the cult. Sensing that Doyle didn’t want to talk about those experiences, and content for the moment to allow that, Bodie filled him in on how Murphy, Jax, and just about every other CI5 operative available had been drafted in to sweep into every one of the cult’s properties and take all their followers into protective custody, and start therapy to undo the damage done by the cult’s conditioning.

Bodie’s words washed over him, comforting in their flow and rhythm. The patter stopped as the nurses fussed over him, bathing his wounds, bandaging his sliced calf, making him wince with the antiseptic wipes, before bandaging his ribs and finally leaving him to wait for a doctor to say whether he needed to stay in for further observation or whether he was fit to go. He hoped it was the later; he wanted his own flat, his own bed. His own space around him to file away the memories of the last few days and decide how to label them before putting them behind him. He lay back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, and stared at the ceiling tiles, wondering how long this would take

He became aware of Bodie’s watchful gaze and wondered if he’d missed something.

“What you staring at?” he asked. If in doubt, act defensive. It usually worked.

“I’m wondering when you’re going to tell me what’s bothering you.” For all the sweetness in his tone, Bodie’s voice dripped acid.

“Christ, Bodie, I’ve been worked over for two days and nights. You don’t expect me to be all sweetness and fucking light, do you?” Doyle sat up, wincing, and tried to reach for his t-shirt. Unable to quite catch the fabric, he tried stretching further, but Bodie beat him to it, snatching up the blood stained t-shirt and thrusting it into his hands.

“Out with it.”

Doyle poked his head through the t-shirt, meeting the implacable midnight-blue eyes of his partner. He sighed. He was tired; he hurt; the painkillers weren’t even close to taking the edge off it, and he didn’t have the time or energy for a battle of wills. Not against Bodie. Anyone else, he would have stood at least half a chance, but this was Bodie. He’d get there in the end. Doyle may as well make it easier on himself.

“They played us off against each other,” he said softly, his gaze settling on the crisp cotton sheets. “If I pissed them off, they beat her with a tawse. If she didn’t play along…..” he let his voice trail off.

“Play along?” Bodie was determined to have it all.

“Let them feel her up,” Doyle hissed, anger and humiliation in his eyes. “Christ, Bodie, the only reason I had a chance to throttle that bastard Jackson was because she … because….” he faltered, remembering the sight of Jackson’s tongue on her throat, his hand digging cruelly into her firm breast. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Bodie let him gather himself, knowing he’d gone too far to stop now.

“She said she’d do whatever he wanted. Her body in exchange for mine,” Doyle finished, his voice a harsh whisper.

Bodie said nothing. Doyle looked up, wondering what his partner thought about that, and saw the tall, powerful man standing, arms folded across his chest. Bodie’s face was a mask. When he spoke, his voice was calm, neutral.

“She bargained with the only thing she’d got left,” he began softly. “You think she didn’t know they were playing you off against each other? But it bought you time, didn’t it. Time enough to kill him.”

“Yeah, but….”

“No, buts!” Bodie exploded, leaning forward to bring his face close to Doyle’s, fury in his taut expression. “You deal with it. Because if you don’t, if you so much as look at her funny, all she’s going to think is that you’re disgusted with her. That she’s dirty. And she doesn’t deserve that, Doyle, cus she saved your fucking life!” Bodie regained his composure, and stood straight again. “Deal with it, Doyle. She thought quickly, and she did what she had to do. But don’t you dare think any less of her because of it.”

Doyle’s hand grabbed the front of Bodie’s shirt, pulling him down to face him again. “You sanctimonious bastard,” he hissed, green eyes flashing with anger. “Think less of her? You think letting them lay one finger on her was worth them leaving me alone?” He released Bodie roughly, pushing him away.

Bodie smiled and smoothed his shirt back down. “That’s alright then. You know what to do. You act like it wasn’t anything different. You don’t make light of it, and you don’t dwell on it. Cus I’m sure she won’t be. Practical woman, is Lady Moncrieffe.” Bodie grinned. “Did you see the look on her face when she pulled that gun on me?”

Doyle couldn’t stop an answering grin at the memory, grateful for the change in topic. “She’d have pulled the trigger as well,” he said. “Safety was off, y’know.”

Bodie ruffled the messy curls of Doyle’s hair. “Well, I’m glad you had someone to look after you while I wasn’t around.” 

“You had Steve.” Doyle’s expression was carefully neutral.

Bodie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t remind me,” he hissed as the doctor entered the room, effectively killing the conversation, much to Bodie’s relief.

*********************

 

**Saturday – August 6th**

As they pulled up outside The Ace Club in Brixton, Doyle finally stopped his incessant grousing about his new pool car not being an RS2000, which had been his sole topic of conversation for the last twenty minutes. He stared straight ahead in silence, his features set rigid 

Bodie looked across at him. "Okay?" he asked, knowing full well he wasn't.

Doyle made the effort to relax. "Yeah, of course," he replied with a faint smile. "No problem." His voice lacked conviction and he still made no move to leave the car. 

"She will be happy to see you, you know?" said Bodie.

Doyle let out a mirthless laugh. "It's been over six weeks, Bodie. Six weeks!" He turned a wry smile to his partner. "I mean, most birds have had enough if you don't contact them in six days."

Bodie let the words wash over him, knowing it wasn't the root of the problem. Yes, Doyle had made no attempt to contact her, and she had been rushed from one doctor to another for the first week before taking herself off somewhere to hide from all the over-protective people she suddenly found herself surrounded by. But he also knew that just because Doyle hadn't contacted her didn't mean he hadn't been thinking about her.

"And now the truth." Bodie's calm voice brooked no argument.

Doyle leaned forward and put his head in his hands, letting out a long sigh. Trust Bodie to get straight to the point.

"Come on, Ray," said Bodie, reaching over to rub his friend's shoulder gently. "Talk to me."

“I just -” Doyle leaned his arm against the window, fingers nervously pulling at his lower lip. “I don’t know. Can I look at her without thinking about what happened? Will I just remind her of something she’d rather forget?” He threw his head back against the headrest of the chair. “For Christ’s sake, Bodie. Can we even just be normal together?”

Bodie smiled indulgently. “Stop trying to over analyse, get out of the car, and let's go and enjoy ourselves.” Doyle turned his head to face him, doubt in his expression. “You’re not going to get your answers sat in here. Just take it easy, see how you go. There’s no rule that says you have to do anything.”

Doyle gave a smile of resignation. “Okay mate, whatever you say.”

Bodie gave a grin. “That’s more like it! What’s the point in all that hair if you don’t let it down every so often, eh?”

“You just want to meet Steve's other half,” Doyle said, a teasing light in his eyes.

Bodie drew himself up, managing to convey with a flare of his nostril and a warning glance that he considered such jibes beneath his dignity.

“For your information, the Viscount is lately returned from visiting his mother. In Italy,” he replied, with cool grandeur. “It appears his mother does not approve of his relationship choices.” The teasing look turned serious, and Doyle's smile faded.

“Well, that's her loss then, isn't it,” he said, with cold finality.

They parked up and walked across the road, Bodie managing to hide his concern at leaving his Capri unattended in this part of town. After all, that’s what pool cars were for. Bodie considered Doyle's curt final words. It was true; apparently the Viscount had been visiting their mother in Italy when Rhiannon had been kidnapped. The mother had an attack of the vapours as soon as she had the news and it was unthinkable that her son should abandon her just so he could return to England to try and help his sister. When she had been recovered, the thoughtful mother then announced that there was no longer the need for him to return, and so, ever the dutiful son, he had stayed his alloted time.

It wasn't difficult to see which side of the family the Viscount and Rhiannon took after. It was difficult to imagine how a mother so vacuous could produce a daughter like Rhiannon. And it certainly seemed that the almost self-destructive streak of responsibility had infected the Viscount as well, staying with his mother when apparently – according to Steve's colourful account – he had been less than pleasant company throughout.

As they reached the front of the club, all thoughts disappeared as the door suddenly burst open, and the irrepressible blond bombshell they had come to know so well ran up to them, scooping Bodie up in a bear hug. 

“Oh, I didn't think you'd come, you gorgeous beast you!” Steve screeched. He suddenly dropped Bodie like a hot brick as a tall, dark haired man appeared at his side. He flushed slightly, looking guilty. “Bodie, Doyle, this is Robin, Rhia's brother and my partner.”

Doyle looked at Bodie and saw in his eyes the same emotion as he was feeling. It was like looking at Bodie's twin. “Well, that explains a lot,” said Doyle, with a smile, taking Robin‘s hand in a firm shake. Steve blushed quite considerably.

“Thank you for saving my sister's life,” Robin said, taking Bodie’s hand straight after releasing Doyle’s. The narrowing in his eyes was for Bodie alone, “And for looking after Golden Boy here so well for me.” Bodie carried the unsaid comment with grace and a slight flush. “I'm not sure we'll ever be able to repay you both.”

Steve pushed Robin towards Bodie and Doyle. “I've got to go, I've only got two minutes til we're on. Get them both a drink, sweetheart,” he said, brushing Robin’s cheek with his lips before dashing off. 

Bodie and Robin eyed each other up, both trying not to laugh. Finally, with a graceful bow, Robin ushered them into the club. Feeling happier and more relaxed than he had in days, maybe even weeks, Doyle allowed himself to be led. Robin found them a table near the front, and organised drinks. 

The band were good. They got the crowd going quickly, and kept them at the right level throughout. Rhiannon’s voice was rich and dark, singing songs usually sung by men and women with equal power and control, avoiding any strain or shrillness. She had an impressive vocal range, and when the vocal melody interlaced with the lead guitar riffs, it was like a perfectly arranged duet. ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’ was full of incredible power, while ‘I Surrender’ contained notes held for so long, they wondered whether she’d learned to breathe through her ears.

Rhiannon herself was as much a pleasure on the eyes as her voice was on the ears. She wore tight fitting black leather trousers, with a black satin basque accentuating her curves. Over it all was a loose fitting, silver chain mail like top. The overall impression was one of careful hidden seduction, just enough temptation on view to pique the interest. And interest was certainly piqued, of that there was no doubt.

More Rainbow, and Doyle felt her dark blue eyes resting on him at certain times during the song. He saw the smile playing on her lips.

_“You didn’t come just to see the show,_  
I guess you know what you wanna see  
The way you smile lets me know, I can’t go wrong….” 

Bodie nudged his arm, dragging his attention away from the stage, indicating his half empty pint glass. Doyle nodded, giving a quick gesture of thanks, before turning back to watch the show.

_“You’re sort of young but you’re over age_  
I don’t care cus I like your style  
Don’t know about your brain but you look alright.” 

Rhiannon held the microphone stand loosely in one hand, letting the hand trail up and down the upright in a way that left little to the imagination.

He’d been right. She’d get a rise out of anything. 

_“I wanna love ya - All Night Long_  
I wanna be with ya - All Night Long  
I wanna love ya - All Night Long  
I wanna be with ya - All Night Long.” 

Doyle was almost glad when the gig was over. The audience were appreciative, and so they should have been. Robin prompted them to stay exactly where they were while he went and helped the band strike the set. It didn’t take them long, just packing the stuff up enough to clear the stage. Bodie arrived at the table with a tray of drinks in time for the band to come and quench their thirst. They were introduced to Nick, the bassist, and the new guitarist, Jim. Bodie and Doyle appraised the newest member of the band - long, straight brown hair; over six foot tall. It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together.

Doyle raised his glass to Rhiannon as she appeared, gratefully taking a Jack Daniels and Coke from the tray.

“Didn’t recognise you with your clothes on,” he said with a wicked grin.

She stared at him for a split second, and he could see she was torn between punching him or laughing. She settled for jogging his arm slightly, just enough to tip some of his drink down his t-shirt.

“Oi!” he said. “That’s a waste of a drink, that is!”

She cast a sly look at him, and he immediately rethought his idea about the new guitarist. “Nah. Not if it means I can get you out of your shirt again.” She slid an arm around his waist, her eyes showing the next move was his. 

He smiled down at her, and pretended to tip the rest of his drink down her top. She gave a sharp cry of complaint and moved away, but his free arm snaked around her waist and pulled her closer. She grinned up at him.

They had their answer.


End file.
